















,^' 






/ A .< S 






'-^^ 






^ aO'.^:... 



^A 






\d^ 



v^- 



t «- ^ C • . ^^ 



Y- 



0- ^ 






%.^ 



■^ 



\V 



\/- 



^■^^ 



J"', 



^,5 -^. 



A>^ 



^ . t^ ^ . ^'^ ' -^ 






N^^ -C, 



•D O 






N . -/• 






■ V O. 




-y" 






v 




^^ 


-'*.^ 


'*\^',o^ 




•% - 


« 1 ^ -^N 




v*. 


v^^ 




' X 


,=:?-*" '■^ 














-^ --'"V 






. ,- '^^ -^'- 






-^^' -'' 


^ 




, - \U 










''7. 


0^ = 






C' 






■ "^ ^ "^^^ 



v-^ 



0^ 

'2. ■ 



.\N' 



,\''- 



\" X 



.^■> 






^> <■> ^ <' A- 



i^^ 



a 






-^^ 



-y^' 






8 ! A " ^N.^ 






-^ 



;-' -v. >-■ 



\^ 



V/', 



/- r^^ 



^r 



.r,^ ^Z 



X^^ 









.\ 



V 



,-0 






A- 



.<^^ 



•^^^ ..^ 



<->, 



^^ ' %> ^,^ 



.^^ 






aV^ 






•^ ^ 









V 



A-, 



sx^-- 



''c^ 



-y -^ i-/"^. 



SHAKESPEARE 



IN TALE AND VERSE 



BY 



LOIS GROSVENOR HUFFORD 



•/ shall tell you a pretty tale ; it may be you have 
heard it.''* — Coriolanus 



• • • 


• • • • 

• • • 

r • • • a 
» • • 

• • • • < 


• • • * • 

• • ••• •• 

• • • * « 


• • • 

• • • • 

• • • 


• • • 


# • 

• • 

••• 


• • • 

• • 


• • * • • I • 


• * • 

• • • • • 




THE 


MACMILLAN 


COMPANY 


LONDON : 


MACMILLAN 


& CO. 


, Ltd. 






1902 










All rights reser-ve 


d 





.H2 



The library of 
oongsess, 

Two Coeies REcetvEO 

DEC, H 1901 

Copyright entry 

CLASS ^XXo. No. 

C©PY a. 



Copyright, 1901, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



' •« • •• • 



• • • 


• • • 


• 

• • 


•.2 


C' 


• « 


cc* 


t » 



Norfajooti ^rfSS 

J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 



Eo i%g Jguslianti 



PREFACE 

In retelling these tales from Shakespeare, the author's 
purpose is to introduce Shakespeare to the young, and 
to such of their elders as find the intricacies of the plots 
of the dramas somewhat difficult to untangle. For, 
although in naniing the best books of the world, Shake- 
speare is usually mentioned after the Bible, compara- 
tively few of the great reading public are familiarly 
acquainted with Shakespeare's plays. 

The stories that constitute the main plots are given, 
and these are interspersed with the dramatic dialogue 
in such a manner as to make tale and verse interpret 
each other. 

The author has endeavored to tell the stories from 
Shakespeare's point of view ; to interpret sympatheti- 
cally and truthfully the motives of the dramas and of 
the characters ; to omit unessential details; and to select 
for quoting passages that are notable for strength and 
beauty, and those that have especial significance in 
revealing character. 

vii 



It is hoped that this work may serve to attract read- 
ers of this generation to Shakespeare, as Lamb's charm- 
ing "Tales " have done for so many years. 

The author gratefully acknowledges her indebtedness 
to Professor Fred N. Scott, of the University of Michi- 
gan, for encouragement in the prosecution of this work. 

For the most part, Rolfe's text has been followed in 
the passages quoted. The spelling of the past tense 
and the past participle of verbs ending in ed has been 
made to conform to modern pronunciation. The spell- 
ing of such words as Jwnor accords with the custom in 
America. 

The meaning of obsolete and unusual words is given 
in footnotes at the bottom of the pages on which they 
occur. Classical, and other literary allusions, are ex- 
plained in notes at the end of the volume. 

L. G. H. 

Indianapolis, November, 1901. 



VIU 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface vii 

The Tempest i 

A Midsummer Night's Dream 25 

Romeo and Juliet 41 

The Merchant of Venice 71 

As You Like It 113 

Taming of the Shrew 133 

Comedy of Errors . 159 

Twelfth Night 189 

Two Gentlemen of Verona 213 

Hamlet 241 

Macbeth . . . . 283 

The Winter's Tale 311 

King Lear 345 

Othello 369 

Cymbeline 403 



Allusions Explained 



441 



IX 



THE TEMPEST 



SHAKESPEARE IN TALE AND VERSE 



THE TEMPEST' 

Many years ago — so long ago that no one knows 
how many — a certain king of Naples, Alonso by name, 
was returning to his own country, after having attended 
the marriage festivities of his daughter, who had been 
wedded to the king of Tunis. As the fleet was crossing 
the great sea, it encountered a violent storm, and the 
vessel that carried the king and his courtiers was 
wrecked upon the shores of an island. In the con- 
fusion, the king's son, Ferdinand, became separated 
from his father and friends, who were greatly distressed 
at his loss, believing that he had been drowned. 

The truth was, however, that the storm was the work 
of a magician, Prospero, the lord of the island. Pros- 
per© had raised the tempest for his own purposes, and 
he had charged his servant, Ariel, a dainty sprite who 
delighted to do his master's bidding, — 

— be 't to fly, 
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curled clouds, — 
3 



to take care that not a single life of those on board the 
ship should be lost. When his task was performed, 
Ariel reported to Prospero, who asked him : — ■ 

Hast thou, spirit, 
Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee? 

Ariel. To every article. 
I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak, 
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
I flamed amazement : sometime I'd divide, 
And burn in many places ; on the topmast. 
The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly. 
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors 
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary 
And sight-outrunning were not. 

Prospero. My brave spirit ! 

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil ^ 
Would not infect his reason? 

Ariel. Not a soul 

But felt a fever of the mad, and played 
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel. 
Then all afire with me : the king's son, Ferdinand, 
With hair up -staring, — then like reeds, not hair, — 
Was the first man that leaped ; cried, " Hell is empty, 
And all the devils are here." 

Prospero. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 

Ariel. Not a hair perished ; 

On their sustaining garments not a blemish, 
But fresher than before : and, as thou bad'st me. 
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. 
The king's son have I landed by himself; 
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs 

1 tumult. 
4 



In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 
His arms in this sad knot. 

Prospero. Of the king's ship, 

The mariners, say how hast thou disposed. 
And all the rest o' the fleet. 

Ariel. Safely in harbor 

Is the king's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still-vexed. Bermoothes, there she's hid ; 
The mariners all under hatches stowed ; 
Who, with a charm joined to their suffered labor, 
I have left asleep : and for the rest o' the fleet 
Which I dispersed, they all have met again, 
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,^ 
Bound sadly home for Naples, 
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wracked^ 
And his great person perish. 

Prospero. Ariel, thy charge 

Exactly is performed ; but there's more work. 

Miranda, the beautiful daughter of Prospero, stand- 
ing before her father's rock-cell, their only home, and 
watching the vessel as it was driven before the tempest, 
had suffered with those that she saw suffer, and had 
begged her father, if by his art he had " put the wild 
waters in this roar, to allay them." Prospero quieted 
her fears by the assurance that he had so ordered it 
that no harm had come to any of the inmates of the 
wrecked vessel. 

Ever since she could remember, Miranda had lived 
alone with her father, who had been her companion and 
teacher ; for, in all these years, she had seen no other 

1 waves. 2 wrecked. 

5 



human being, and she knew nothing of her own, or her 
father's history. 

Now, however, Prospero told her that the time had come 
for her to hear what had caused them to hve this lonely 
life so long. Bidding her be attentive, he asked her : — 

Canst thou remember 
A time before we came unto this cell? 
I do not think thou canst ; for then thou wast not 
Out^ three years old. 

Miranda. Certainly, sir, I can. 

Prospero. By what? by any other house or person? 
Of anything the image tell me that 
Hath kept with thy remembrance. 

Miranda. 'Tis far off, 

And rather like a dream than an assurance 
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not 
Four or five women once that tended me? 

Prospero. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But 
how is it 
That this hves in thy mind? What seest thou else 
In the dark backward and abysm of time ? 
If thou rememberest aught ere thou cam'st here, 
How thou cam'st here thou mayst. 

Miranda. But that I do not. 

Prospero. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year 
since. 
Thy father was the Duke of Milan and 
A prince of power. 

Miranda. O the heavens ! 

What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? 
Or blessed was't we did ? 

Prospero. Both, both, my girl : 

^ past. 
6 



By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence ; 
But blessedly holp ^ hither. 

Miranda. O, my heart bleeds 

To think o' the teen ^ that I have turned you to, 
Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, farther. 

Prospero then told his daughter that he had always 
been fond of study. So devoted to his books was he 
that he had found it an annoyance to give attention to 
the affairs of his dukedom. So he persuaded his 
brother, Antonio, to manage the government in his 
stead. Antonio took advantage of his student-brother's 
neglect to gain the rule of Milan for himself. By 
pledging himself to pay an annual tribute to the king 
of Naples, and to acknowledge him as a superior lord, 
Antonio induced Naples to assist him to seize the throne 
of Milan, saying that his library was dukedom enough 
for Prospero. 

Prospero went on to describe how his false brother 
accomplished his wicked design : — 

A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open 
The gates of Milan ; and, i' the dead of darkness, 
The ministers for th' purpose hurried thence 
Me and thy crying self. 

Miranda. Alack, for pity ! 

I, not remembering how I cried out then. 
Will cry it o'er again. Wherefore did they not 
That hour destroy us ? 

Prospero. They durst not. 

So dear the love ray people bore me ; nor set 

1 helped. '^ trouble. 

7 



A mark so bloody on the business, but 

With colors fairer painted their foul ends. 

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark. 

Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepared 

A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigged, 

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 

Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us, 

To cry to th' sea that roared to us ; to sigh 

To th' winds, whose pity, sighing back again. 

Did us but loving wrong. 

Miranda. Alack, what trouble 

Was I then to you ! 

Prospero. O, a cherubin 

Thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, 
Infused with a fortitude from heaven. 
When I have decked the sea with drops full salt. 
Under my burthen groaned. 

]\[iR.A.NDA. How came we ashore? 

Prospero. By Providence divine. 
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
Out of his charity did give us, with 
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, 
Which since have steaded much. So, of his gentleness, 
Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me. 
From mine own hbrary, with volumes that 
I prize above my dukedom. 

Miranda. Would I might 

But ever see that man ! 

Prospero. Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 
Here in this island we arrived ; and here 
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
Than other princess can, that have more time 
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. 

8 



Miranda. Heavens thank you for't ! And now I 
pray you, sir, 
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason 
For raising this sea-storm? 

Prospero. Know thus far forth : 

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune 
Hath mine enemies brought to this shore. 
Here cease more questions : 
Thou art inclined to sleep ; 'tis a good dulness 
And give it way : — I know thou canst not choose. 

We shall not wonder that Miranda could not resist 
this drowsiness, when we know that it was due to a touch 
from the magic wand of Prospero, who willed that she 
should not overhear what passed between himself and 
Ariel. This bright little spirit longed to be free, and 
Prospero promised to release him in two days' time, if 
he would perform perfectly every command that his 
master should lay upon him. 

First, he was to make himself a nymph of the sea, 
but he was to be invisible to every eye but that of Pros- 
pero. While in this form, he went to seek Prince Fer- 
dinand, whom he had left sitting upon a bank, weeping 
for the loss of his father, the king of Naples. In order 
to arouse him from his sad thoughts, Ariel sang a 
sweetly plaintive melody : — 

Full fatho77i five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coi'al made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth sitffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 

9 



Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Hark, now I hear them — Ding-dong^ bell. 

Ferdinand followed the sound of the music which he 
heard in the air above him, until, led by the invisible 
Ariel, he came within sight of Prospero and Miranda, 
whom her father had, by this time, purposely awakened. 
Prospero said to Miranda : — 

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, 
And say what thou seest yond. 

Miranda. What is't ? a spirit ? 

Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir, 
It carries a brave ^ form. But 'tis a spirit. 

Prospero. No, wench ; it eats and sleeps and hath 
such senses 
As we have — such. This gallant which thou seest 
Was in the wrack ; and, but he's something stained 
With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him 
A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, 
x\nd strays about to find 'em. 

Miranda. I might call him 

A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble. 

Never having seen any man except her father, 
Miranda supposed that all men were gray-haired like 
the aged Prospero. When Ferdinand, who, by this 
time, had come to believe the island enchanted, saw the 
fair Miranda, he thought that she must be the presiding 
goddess of the place. Still, so attracted was he to her, 
that he ventured to hope that she was human like him- 
self. When Miranda replied in his own language, telling 

1 fine. 
10 



him that she was only a simple maid, his astonishment 
knew no bounds, and he immediately told her that, if he 
could win her love, he would make her queen of Naples. 

Now this was just what Prospero desired, but fearing 
that "too light winning would make the prize seem light" 
to Ferdinand, he pretended to suspect that Ferdinand in- 
tended to seize the island from him, and make himself the 
lord of it. So he spoke very harshly to the young man, 
whereat the gentle Miranda plead with her father, saying 
that she was sure that "nothing ill could dwell in such a 
temple," and promising to be surety for her lover's truth. 

Ferdinand, angered by the threatening words of Pros- 
pero, drew his sword, but Prospero, waving his magic 
wand, charmed his uplifted hand, and compelled him to 
obey his will. The bewildered Ferdinand declared : — 

My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, 
The wrack of all my friends, nor this man's threats 
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, 
Might I but through my prison once a day 
Behold this maid. All corners else o' th' earth 
Let liberty make use of ; space enough 
Have I in such a prison. 

In order to test Ferdinand's sincerity, Prospero com- 
manded him to pile up some thousands of logs of wood. 
Although the prince felt the harsh treatment keenly, 
yet he willingly submitted for the sake of his love. 

Miranda wept at seeing him so heavily tasked, and 
begged him to rest while she carried some of the logs to 
the pile for him. But Ferdinand protested : — 

II 



No, precious creature ; 
I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
Than you should such dishonor undergo, 
While I sit lazy by. 

Miranda. It would become me 

As well as it does you ; and I should do it 
With much more ease, for my good will is to it, 
And yours it is against. 

Ferdinand was so touched by Miranda's loving sym- 
pathy that he forgot to work. At his request, she 
artlessly told him her name, the meaning of which was 
" the wonderful," whereupon he declared that she was 
rightly named, for, — 

— you, O you, 
So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature's best ! 

Miranda. I do not know 

One of my sex ; no woman's face remember, , 
Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
More that I may call men than you, good friend. 
And my dear father. How features are abroad, 
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty. 
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 
Any companion in the world but you ; 
Nor can imagination form a shape. 
Besides yourself, to like of. — But I prattle 
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
I therein do forget. 

Ferdinand. Hear my soul speak : 

The very instant that I saw you, did 
My heart fly to your service ; there resides. 
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
Am I this patient log-man. 

12 



Miranda. Do you love me? 

Ferdinand. O heaven ! O earth ! bear witness to 
this sound, 
And crown what I profess with kind event, 
If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert 
What best is boded me to mischief ! I, 
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
Do love, prize, honor you. 

Never having had any experience in worldly formali- 
ties, Miranda v^^as as sincere and open-minded as a child. 
She therefore responded to Ferdinand's professions of 
love with honesty and sweet seriousness, saying : — 

Hence, bashful cunning ! 
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
I am your wife, if you will marry me. 

Prospero, who had been watching the lovers, but 
unseen by them, was delighted at the turn affairs were 
taking, saying to himself, " my rejoicing at nothing can 
be more." He now revealed himself, and said to 
Ferdinand : — 

If I have too austerely punished you. 
Your compensation makes amends ; for I 
Have given you here a thread of mine own life, 
Or that for which I live : who once again 
I tender to thy hand. All thy vexations 
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
Hast strangely stood the test : here, afore Heaven, 
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
Do not smile at me that I boast her off, 
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, 
And make it halt behind her. 

13 



- uz z^AXD. I do be'ir r :: 

Ar r 

xJ. r^i: ^ 7 "" ~ ~ gift and tfaiuc : ~~ : : ~: :~ 
Wortii% ^ vdangliter; sLt 

Then, teDm^ thon tliat he had business that demanded 
i attention, ProsDcro bade them en]oj each other's 
::et^ until lis rer-im. This conunand they woe 
i to obev. 



. : T 7 : 7 T IT : : 5 wnM:n rros- 

T 7 isi, oiiti DoCaiise he leseuted 

r ' :'rom his mother, STCOiax. 

Si" -ic vc_ :7 7— possible way; curang 

his master, .i: v^, _:i : -ri^elled to use harsh 

measures in Older to subdu 7 7 r-^atuie to his wilL 

When Caliban complained. 7.7: ::'A him : — 

I pitied z.zr 
7 ; ^ :]s to make thee sf t :r 

One thing or other : vhen : i^ noi, savag^^ 

Know thine ovn meaning, ': : '~ pbUe like 

A tliii^ most hmtisli, I end zrposes 

With words that made tfaein 2 : diy Tile race, 

Thoogfa thon didst kam, had tiiat in't wiiich good natnres 
Coold not abide to be with ; theiefoie wast tfaoa 
neserredlT confined into this lock, 

14 



Who hadst deserved more than a prison. 

Caliban. You taught me language ; and my profit on't 

Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid^ you 
For learning me your language ! 

Prospero. Hag-seed, hence ! 

Fetch us in fuel ; and be quick, thou'rt best. 
If thou neglect' st, or dost unwillingly 
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, 
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, 
That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 

Although raging inwardly, Caliban acknowledges that 
Prospero's art is such that even the god Setebos, whom 
his witch-mother had worshipped, would be compelled 
to obey it — much more, he. So he goes to his task of 
carrying wood. While at this work, he encounters two 
drunken knaves who have escaped from the wrecked 
vessel. When these men discover the misshapen mon- 
ster, they amuse themselves by giving him liquor from a 
cask which they have found among the ship's wreckage. 

The brutish Caliban takes these drunkards to be gods 
who have been sent by Setebos, the moon-god. So he 
is ready to worship them ; and he hopes, with their 
help, to revenge himself on Prospero. He tells one of 
them, Stephano by name, that if he will destroy the 
cunning sorcerer w^ho has robbed him, Caliban, of his 
birthright, he will evermore serve Stephano as the lord 
of the island. Caliban then unfolds his plan : — 

As I told thee, 'tis a custom with him (Prospero) 

I' th' afternoon to sleep ; there thou mayst brain him, 

Having first seized his books ; or with a log 

1 destroy, 
15 



Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember 
First to possess his books ; for without them 
He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
One spirit to command : they all do hate him 
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. 
Within this half hour will he be asleep ; 
Wilt thou destroy him then? 

Stephaxo. Ay, on mine honor. 

Caliban. Thou mak'st me merry ; I am full of 
pleasure. 

In their drunken jollity they begin to sing, whereupon 
Ariel, who has overheard everything, plays a tune upon 
a tabor and a pipe in the air above them. This tune, 
''played by the picture of Nobody," as they say, rouses 
the superstitious fears of the drunken men, but Caliban 
tells them : — 

Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, 

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. 

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 

Will hum about mine ears ; and sometiaies voices 

That, if I then had waked after long sleep, 

-Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, 

The clouds methought would open, and show riches 

Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I waked, 

I cried to dream again. 

Stephano. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, 
where I shall have mv music for nothing^. 

Caliban. When Prospero is destroyed. 

The plots of this knot of silly conspirators were all 
known to Prospero and Ariel, who were prepared to 
drive them from the cell when they should approach. 

i6 



As they were coming stealthily forward, under the lead 
of Caliban, Prospero said sorrowfully of the creature 
whom he had vainly tried to teach : — 

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature 
Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains, 
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost ; 
And as with age his body uglier grows. 
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, 
Even to roaring. 

At the right moment, Prospero set a pack of hunt- 
ing dogs upon them. As they fled before the dogs, 
Prospero said to Ariel, — 

Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints 
With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews 
With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them 
Than pard ^ or cat o' mountain. 

Ariel. Hark, they roar ! 

Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly. 

Thus the spiteful Caliban, whose brutish nature had 
resisted all Prospero's efforts to humanize him, was de- 
servedly punished for his wicked attempt on the life of 
his master. 

It is time to inquire what fortunes have befallen the 
king of Naples and his courtiers, whom we left bewail- 
ing the loss of Ferdinand and of their ship. 

After a vain search through the mazes of the en- 
chanted island, the king had given up all hope of ever 
again seeing his lost son. At one time during their 

1 leopard. 
C 17 



wanderings, King Alonso and the faithful Gonzalp, he 
who had succored Prospero when he was set adrift, 
were overcome by sleep. Their companions — Antonio, 
the usurping brother of Prospero, and Sebastian, 
Alonso's brother — plotted together to kill the sleepers, 
that Sebastian might make himself king of Naples, and 
that Antonio, in reward for his part in the conspiracy, 
might be freed from paying tribute to Naples. 

Just as the two plotters had raised their swords to 
strike, however, Ariel was sent by Prospero to save 
the man who had taken pity on him in his hour of 
need. He sang in Gonzalo's ear : — 

While you here do snoring lie, 
Open-eyed conspii-acy 

His time doth take. 
If of life you keep a care, 
Shake ojf slumber, and beware : 

Awake ! Awake / 

Starting up suddenly, the king asked of Antonio and 
Sebastian why they had their swords drawn. The 
false men pretended that they had heard a roaring like 
the sound of lions, and had drawn to defend them- 
selves. Affrighted by the tale, the king and Gonzalo 
led the way to another part of the island. As they 
started off, Ariel said to himself : — 

Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have done : 
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. 

A little later, heart-sick and weary, and fainting with 
hunger, these men were still further tortured by Ariel, 



who placed a banquet before their longing eyes, and 
just as they were about to eat, suddenly appeared in 
the form of a harpy — a loathsome creature, half bird, 
half woman — and snatched the food from their out- 
stretched hands. 

By this time, the memory of their past misdeeds began 
to stir their consciences, and now they heard the voice 
of Ariel teUing them of their sins. In stern tones he 
pronounced judgment, saying : — 

I and my fellows 
Are ministers of Fate. Remember, — 
For that's my business to you, — that you three 
From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, 
Him and his innocent child : for which foul deed 
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, 
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 
They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me, 
Lingering perdition — worse than any death 
Can be at once — shall step by step attend 
You and your ways ; whose wraths to guard you from, — 
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 
Upon your heads, — is nothing but heart's sorrow. 
And a clear life ensuing. 

The three guilty men imagine that the very billows, 
and the winds, and the loud-sounding thunder are ac- 
cusing spirits, denouncing them for the wrong they had 
done to Prospero. In their alarm, they rush about like 
madmen, followed by the good Gonzalo, who fears that, 
in their desperation, they will do themselves some harm. 

19 



But this the watchful Ariel prevents. He drives them 
into a grove near the cell of Prospero, and there he 
holds them until the sixth hour of the day, the time 
appointed by Prospero for his and their release. 

Alonso and Antonio, the usurping brother of Pros- 
pero, have now become sincerely repentant for the 
wrong they had done to Prospero, and he, knowing 
this, commands Ariel to bring them into his presence, 
saying : — 

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, 

Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 

Do I take part. The rarer action is 

In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 

Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel : 

My charms PU break, their senses I'll restore, 

And they shall be themselves. 

Ariel. I'll fetch them, sir. 

Drawn by the subtle power of music which Ariel 
sounds in the air above them, they are led to Prospero, 
who thus addresses them, as they stand within a charmed 

circle : — 

There stand. 
For you are spell-stopped. — 
Holy Gonzalo, honorable man. 
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine. 
Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves apace ; 
And as the morning steals upon the night. 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. — O good Gonzalo, 

20 



My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
To him thou follow'st ! I will pay thy graces 
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly 
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter : 
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ; — 
Thou art pinched for't now, Sebastian. 

Then turning to Antonio, Prospero continues : — 

Flesh and blood, 
You, brother mine, that entertained ambition, 
Expelled remorse ^ and nature ; who, with Sebastian, — 
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, — 
Would here have killed your king ; I do forgive thee. 
Unnatural though thou art. 

These words of forgiveness were scarcely understood 
by the bewildered men, who did not recognize the long- 
unseen Prospero. He therefore retired into his cell, 
whence he soon emerged again, dressed in the very 
same garments that he had formerly worn when he was 
Duke of Milan. He then addressed himself to Alonso, 

saying : — 

Behold, Sir King, 
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero : 
For more assurance that a living prince 
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
And to thee and thy company I bid 
A hearty welcome. 

Alonso. Whether thou beest he or no, 

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me. 
As late I have been, I not know : thy pulse 
Beats, as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw thee, 
Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which, 

1 pity. 
21 



I fear, a madness held me. 

Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat 

Thou pardon me my wrongs. — But how should Prospero 

Be hving and be here ? 

Turning to Gonzalo, Prospero said : — 

First, noble friend, 
Let me embrace thine age, whose honor cannot 
Be measured or confined. 

Gonzalo. Whether this be 

Or be not, I'll not swear. 

Prospero. You do yet taste 

Some subtleties o' th' isle, that will not let you 
Believe things certain. — Welcome, my friends all ! 
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
Thy rankest fault, — all of them ; and require 
My dukedom of thee, which perforce I know 
Thou must restore. 

Alonso. If thou beest Prospero, 

Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 
Were wracked upon this shore ; where I have lost — 
How sharp the point of this remembrance is ! — 
My dear son Ferdinand. 

Prospero. Know for certain 

That I am Prospero, and that very duke 
Which was thrust forth of Milan ; who most strangely 
Upon this shore, where you were wracked, was landed, 
To be the lord on't. No more yet of this ; 
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, 
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor 
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir ; 
This cell's my court : here have I few attendants, 

22 



And subjects none abroad : pray you, look in. 
My dukedom since you have given me again, 
I will requite you with as good a thing ; 
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye 
As much as me my dukedom. 

So saying, Prospero opened the door of his cell and 
bade them look within. There, to their utter amaze- 
ment, they discovered Ferdinand and the beautiful 
Miranda playing chess. The king, overjoyed at find- 
ing the son whom he had mourned as lost, exclaimed: — 

Now all the blessings 
Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
Arise, and sav how thou cam'st here. 
What is this maid with whom thou wast at play? 
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours : 
Is she the goddess that hath severed us, 
And brought us thus together? 

Ferdinand. Sir, she is mortal ; 

But by immortal Providence she's mine : 
I chose her when I could not ask my father 
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 
Of whom so often I have heard renown. 
But never saw before ; of whom I have 
Received a second life, and second father 
This lady makes him to me. 

Alonso is so grateful for his son's restoration, and so 
attracted to the lovely Miranda, that he gladly consents 
to their union. The pious Gonzalo gives them his 
blessing, and thanks the gods that Prospero's wrongs 

23 



have been righted, and that Naples is to have so noble 

a king and queen. 

O, rejoice, 
he says, — 

Beyond a common joy ! and set it down 

With gold on lasting pillars : — In one voyage 

Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ; 

iVnd Ferdinand her brother found a wife, 

Where he himself was lost ; Prospero his dukedom, 

In a poor isle ; and all of us ourselves, 

When no man was his own. Look down, you gods, 

i\nd on this couple drop a blessed crown ! 

For it is you that have chalked forth the way 

Which brought us hither. 

Prospero now told Alonso that his ship was safe in a 
harbor of the island, and that, on the following day, he 
and his daughter would accompany the party to Naples, 
where he hoped to witness the celebration of the mar- 
riage rites of Ferdinand and Miranda. He promised 
them " calm seas, auspicious gales," and a speedy 
voyage. 

The execution of this last charge he then committed 
to Ariel, after which the airy sprite was to be free. 
Ariel, rejoicing in his long-desired freedom, sings: — 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 

In a cowslip's hell I He ; 

There I couch when owls do cry. 

On the bafs hack I do fly 

After su77imer meri'ily. 
Merrily, mer7'ily, shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
24 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 

Long, long ago, a band of warlike maidens, called 
Amazons, lived in the far East. They were so fond of 
war and hunting that they even sometimes battled with 
their neighbors, the Greeks. In one such engagement, 
Hippolyta, their chief, was captured by the famous 
Grecian hero Theseus, who took her with him on his 
return to Greece, and made her his queen. 

Their wedding festivities lasted many days, and 
Theseus tried, in every way, to amuse his bride, so 
that she might be happy in her new home. He bade 
his master of revels to — 

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; 
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth, — 

telling Hippolyta : — 

I wooed thee with my sword, 
And won thy love, doing thee injuries ; 
But I will wed thee in another key. 
With pomp, with tjriumph, and with revelling. 

While Theseus was thus planning merry sports, he 
was interrupted by an aged father, who complained that 
his daughter Hermia refused to marry the man whom 
he had selected for her, and insisted upon choosing a 
husband for herself. So Egeus, the father, begged 

27 



Theseus to interfere and compel Hermia to obey his will 
in the matter. 

It may seem strange to you that a father should make 
such a request of a king ; but in the olden times kings 
often chose husbands for the daughters of their subject 
lords. Besides, there was a law in Athens requiring 
young women either to accept the husbands chosen by 
their fathers, or to remain all their lives unmarried, 
serving as priestesses in the temple of Diana. In case 
that a girl was so obstinate as to refuse to do either, 
then she must die. 

Theseus told Hermia that he would give her four 
days to decide, saying : — 

Upon that day either prepare to die 
For disobedience to your father's will, 
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would ; 
Or on Diana's altar to protest 
For aye austerity and single life. 

Hermia and her lover, Lysander, were in despair 
when they heard this harsh judgment pronounced, until 
Lysander bethought himself that they might elude the 
severe Athenian law by going to the house of his aunt, 
who resided some miles out of Athens, and there be 
married. To this plan Hermia agreed and they parted, 
promising to meet on the following night in a wood a 
short distance from the city. 

Now this wood was a favorite haunt of the fairies, 
and on the very night on which the lovers were to meet 
there, Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of fairy- 

28 



land, with their trains of elves and sprites, were to hold 
a midsummer revel in the enchanted grove. 

Titania and Oberon had quarrelled for a very foolish 
reason, and their silly quarrel had frighted all fairyland, 
so that, as the mischief-loving fairy Puck said : — 

Now they never meet in grove or green, 
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, 
But they do square, i that all their elves for fear 
Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there. 

So it happened that on this beautiful midsummer 
night, Oberon crossly greeted Titania, saying : — 

111 met by moonlight, proud Titania, 

and asked her : — 

How long within this wood intend you stay? 

Titania. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. 
If you will patiently dance in our round 
And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; 
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. 

So saying, Titania moved proudly away, followed by 
her fairy train. 

Oberon was determined to be revenged upon his 
haughty queen, so he called his willing little servant. 
Puck, and told him to go search for a little flower, once 
milk-white, but which had been stained purple by the 
blood that dropped upon it from a wound made by an 
arrow shot by Cupid, the god of love. This little purple- 
stained flower we call the pansy ; but Oberon called it 
love-in-idleness. 

1 quarrel. 
29 



Said Oberon : — 

Fetch me that flower ; the herb I showed thee once : 

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid 

Will make or man or woman madly dote 

Upon the next live creature that it sees. \ 

Fetch me this herb ; and be thou here again 

Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 

Puck. Til put a girdle round about the earth 
In forty minutes, — 

which was Puck's way of saying that a fairy can be here, 
and there, and everywhere, as quick as one can think. 

Puck found the wished-for flower, and speedily re- 
turned with it to his jealous master, who then told how 
he intended to vent his spite upon the fairy queen. 

Oberox. Hast thou the flower there ? 

Puck. Ay, there it is. 

Oberon. I pray thee give it me. 

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, 
Where oxhps and the nodding violet grows, 
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine : 
There sleeps Titania sometimes of the night, 
Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight. 
Having once this juice, 
ril watch Titania when she is asleep. 
And drop the hquor of it in her eyes. 
The next thing then she waking looks upon, 
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull. 
On meddhng monkey, or on busy ape. 
She shall pursue it with the soul of love. 
And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes. 
And make her full of hateful fantasies. 

30 



Titania, just as Oberon had thought she would, had 
sought out her favorite flowery bank, and had bade her 
fairy train : — 

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; 
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; 
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, 
Some war with rere-mice ^ for their leathern wings. 
To make my small elves coats, and some keep back 
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders 
At our quaint ^ spirits. Sing me now asleep ; 
Then to your offices and let me rest. 

So the loving fairies sang : — 

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
Newts and blind-woi'ins, do no wrong, 

Come not near our fairy queen. 

Weaving spiders, come not here ; 

Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence ! 
Beetles black, approach not near ; 
Worm nor snail, do no offence. 
Never haiiii, 
Nor spell nor cha7'm. 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So, good-night, with lullaby. . 

The fairies did not once suspect that Oberon would 
be the one who would harm Titania ; but now he comes, 
treading very softly, bends over the sleeping queen, and 
squeezes some of the juice of Cupid's flower on her eye- 

1 bats. 2 pretty. 

31 



lids, at the same time repeating these words of an evil 

charm : — 

What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true-love take ; 
Love and languish for his sake : 
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, 
Pard,^ or boar with bristled hair, 
In thy eye that shall appear 
When thou wak'st, it is thy dear : 
Wake when some vile thing is near. 

The mischievous little Puck, in wandering through 
the wood, came upon some rude, clownish fellows who 
were rehearsing a play which they were planning to 
give at the wedding-feast of Theseus and Hippolyta. 
Thinking to play a fine joke upon them. Puck softly 
dropped over the hairy pate of one of their number an 
ass's head, which he had found lying upon the ground. 
His strange transformation so frightened the others that 
they fled in all directions. But the clown, thinking that 
one of his companions had put the ass's head on him, 
declared that no one should make him afraid, and said : — 

I will not stir from this place, do what they can : I will walk 
up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am 
not afraid. 

It happened that he was so near Titania's flowery 
bank that the sound of his harsh voice in singing 
awaked her, and the charm caused her to fall in love 
with this foolish clown with the ass's head, since he was 
the first creature that she saw upon waking. Strangely 

1 leopard. 
32 



enough, she thought the ridiculous fellow beautiful, and 
she thus addressed him : — 

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : 

I am a spirit of no common rate : 

The summer still doth tend upon my state ; 

And I do love thee : therefore, go with me. 

I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee, 

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 

And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep ; 

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so, 

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 

So saying, Titania called her delicate little sprites, 
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed, and 
bade them — 

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman : 
Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes; 
Feed him with apricocks ^ and dewberries, 
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries : 
The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, 
And Hght them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, 
To have my love to bed and to arise ; 
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies 
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. 
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 

The little fairies, always obedient to their queen, bow 
before the ridiculous clown, bidding him *' Hail ! " and 
lead him to Titania's woodland bower. There Titania, 
whose eyes have been so blinded by the magic juice of 
the httle purple flower that she loves this clown with the 
ass's head, begs him : — 

1 apricots. 
D 33 



Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 

But the clown, who knows that his head is not smooth 
and sleek, asks the fairies, Peaseblossom and Mustard- 
seed, to scratch his rough pate, saying : — 

I must to the barber's, for methinks I am marvellous hairy 
about the face. 

Titania desires to have him entertained with fairy 
music, but he would rather listen to the rude sound 
of the rustic bones to which he is accustomed. 
Says Titania, — ■ 

Say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. 

The clown replies that he should much enjoy some hay, 
or a peck of good dry oats, or a handful or two of dried 
peas. In vain Titania tells him : — 

I have a venturesome fairy that shall seek 
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 

He grows sleepy and does not wish to be disturbed, 
so Titania winds her fairy arms about the clownish fel- 
low, and they lose themselves in sleep. 

By this time Oberon has become ashamed of his fool- 
ish anger, and repents of the ill-natured trick which he 
has played upon his beautiful queen. So while they 
are yet sleeping, he releases Titania from the charm 
with which he had bound her eyes, saying : — 

34 



Be as thou wast wont to be ; 

See as thou wast wont to see ; 

Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower 

Hath such force and blessed power. 

Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen. 

TiTANiA. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! 
Methought I was enamored of an ass. 

Oberon. There hes your love. 

Titania. How came these things to pass? 
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now ! 

Oberon, to soothe his offended mistress, commanded 
Puck to remove the ass's head from that of the stupid 
clown. This command the sly little sprite willingly 
obeyed, saying : — 

Now, when thou wakest, with thine own fool's eyes peep. 

In order to celebrate fitly the newly restored peace 
with his gentle queen, Oberon ordered music to sound, 
saying to Titania : — 

Come, my queen, take hands with me ; 
Now thou and I are new in amity. 
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly 
Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly. 
And bless it to all fair posterity. 

Puck. Fairy king, attend and mark : 
I do hear the morning lark. 

This was a warning to the fairy king and queen to 
leave that part of the earth on which the sun was about 
to rise, because they were spirits of the night-time. 

Oberon. Then, my queen, in silence sad, 
Trip we after the night's shade : 
35 



We the globe can compass soon, 
Swifter than the wandering moon. 

TiTAXiA. Come, my lord, and in our flight 
Tell me how it came this night 
That I sleeping here was found 
With these mortals on the ground. 

The trick that Puck played upon Titania was not the 
only piece of mischief that he did by means of the magic 
flower. You will remember that the two lovers, Hermia 
and Lysander, had agreed to meet that night in this 
same wood. They were followed secretly by Deme- 
trius, the man whom Hermia's father was determined 
to force her to marry against her wishes; and also by 
another maiden, named Helena, who was madly in love 
with Demetrius and exceedingly jealous of Hermia. 

Now it happened that, while Puck was away search- 
ing for the little purple flower, Oberon overheard Helena 
vainly beseeching Demetrius to bestow his love upon her. 
So when Puck returned, he instructed the merry sprite 
to squeeze some of the magic juice upon the eyes of the 
disdainful Athenian youth, if he should chance to find him 
asleep. This Oberon did, thinking to make Helena happy. 
But Puck, by mistake, gave the charm to Lysander, who 
awoke just as Helena was passing, and transferred to 
her all the love that he had felt for Hermia. 

Helena, on her part, disdained the love of Lysander 
as scornfully as Demetrius had done in repulsing her ad- 
vances to himself. Lysander pursued the fleeing Helena, 
and Hermia, who now awoke, followed them both. 

In their wild chase, all four came within hearing of 

36 



Oberon, who thus discovered Puck's mistake, and sharply 
rebuked him. 

Oberon. This is thy negligence ; still thou mistak'st, 
Or else commit'st thy knaveries wilfully. 

Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, T mistook. 
Did not you tell me I should know the man 
By the Athenian garments he had on ? 
And so far blameless proves my enterprise, 
That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes ; 
And so far am 1 glad it did so sort. 
As this their jangling I esteem a sport. 

Oberon, however, is filled with remorse because of 
the bitter quarrel among the lovers, for which he feels 
himself, in a measure, responsible. So he commands 
Puck to use his arts to separate the young men, who 
are about to fight for the love of Helena. He bids the 
mischief -loving sprite to — 

Lead these testy rivals so astray 
As one come not within another's way. 
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ; 
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; 
And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep : 
Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye, 
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
To take from thence all error with his might. 
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. 
When they next wake, all this derision 
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision, 

37 



And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 

With league whose date till death shall never end. 

Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste ; 
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, 
And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger. 
At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there, 
Troop home to churchyards. 

Oberon. But we are spirits of another sort : 
I with the morning's love have oft made sport, 
And, like a forester, the groves may tread, 
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red. 
Opening to Neptune with fair blessed beams. 
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. 
But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay : 
We may effect this business yet ere day. 

Puck. Up and down, up and down, 
I will lead them up and down : 
I am feared in field and town : 
Goblin, lead them up and down. 

So saying, naughty Puck, unseen by the youths and 
maidens, scatters them in roundabout ways, until, one by 
one, they all sink exhausted on the ground. Then when 
they are fast asleep, he undoes the former mischief by 
squeezing upon the eyelids of Lysander some of the juice 
of the same flower with which Oberon removed the spell 
from the eyes of Titania. Bending over Lysander, he 

chants : — 

On the ground, 
Sleep sound : 
Pll apply 
To your eye, 
Gentle lover, remedy. 
38 



When thou wak'st, 

Thou tak'st 

True dehght 
*' In the sight 

Of thy former lady's eye : 
And the county proverb known, 
That every man should take his own, 
In your waking shall be shown : 

Jack shall have Jill ; 

Naught shall go ill ; 

All shall be well. 

Soothed by the magic spell, all four slept so soundly 
that not even the bright May sunshine awakened them. 
And there they were found still sleeping peacefully 
upon the ground when Theseus and his train came to 
the wood to find amusement in hunting the deer. 

Among the courtiers was Egeus, father of Hermia, 
whose wrath was enkindled at sight of his daughter and 
Helena asleep in the grove. Theseus, however, fancies 
that the young people have come out to do honor to the 
May. Their presence reminds him of the command 
laid upon Hermia, and he asks Egeus if this is not the 
day on which Hermia was to make answer as to her 
choice. Finding that this is the case, he bids the 
huntsmen blow their horns. At the sound, the sleepers 
start up broad awake, and with all their spite and jeal- 
ousy melted away. Demetrius no longer desires to wed 
Hermia ; but his whole heart is now given to Helena, 
whom he had disliked until the magic juice opened his 
eyes to her loveliness. Lysander, too, cured of his brief 
passion for Helena, is again Hermia's, heart and soul. 

39 



At the duke's command, Egeus gives his daughter 
to her chosen one, and Theseus declares that Hermia 
and Lysander, Helena and Demetrius, shall be wedded 
in the temple, when his own marriage rites with Hip- 
polyta are solemnized. 

Thus, amidst the rejoicings of the entire court, the 
true lovers are made happy, and the genial fairies 
shower blessings upon the newly wedded pairs. 

Puck. Not a mouse 
Shall disturb this hallowed house : 
I am sent with broom before, 
To sweep the dust behind the door. 

Oberon. Through the house give glimmering light, 

By the dead and drowsy fire : 
Every elf and fairy sprite 

Hop as light as bird from brier ; 
And this ditty, after me, 
Sing, and dance it trippingly. 

TiTANiA. First rehearse your song by rote, 
To each word a warbling note : 
Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
Will we sing, and bless this place. 

Oberon. Now, until the break of day, 
Through this house each fairy stray. 
With this field-dew consecrate, 
Every fairy take his gait ; 
And each several chamber bless, 
Through this palace, with sweet peace ; 
And the owner of it blest 
Ever shall in safety rest. 
Trip away ; make no stay ; 
Meet me all by break of day. 
40 



ROMEO AND JULIET 



ROMEO AND JULIET 

It has often happened in the course of the world's 
history, that silly quarrels between members of different 
families have resulted in arraying whole houses against 
each other. These quarrels, or feuds, are inherited 
from generation to generation, until any chance meeting 
becomes the signal for open attack. 

Such a deep-seated enmity between the family of the 
Capulets and that of the Montagues had long disturbed 
the peace of old Verona, and the prince had tried in 
vain to reconcile these enemies. His patience was ex- 
hausted when he found, one day, not only their servants, 
but also the heads of the two houses engaged in a street 
brawl. He commanded : — 

Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground, 
And hear the sentence of your mov6d prince. — 
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 
Have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets, 
And made Verona's ancient citizens 
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, 
To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 
Cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate. 
If ever you disturb our streets again, 
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. 

43 



Soon after this, the Lord and Lady Capulet issued 
invitations to a masked ball to be given at their family 
mansion. Among the beauties who were to grace this 
festival was one Rosaline, niece to Lord Capulet, with 
whom Romeo, the heir of the house of Montague, 
imagined himself to be madly in love, but whose ad- 
vances had been repulsed by the lady. 

Benvolio, Romeo's cousin, had no patience with the 
lovesick folly of his kinsman, and he thought that, if 
Romeo would make the acquaintance of other maidens, 
he would be cured of his hopeless passion. So he sug- 
gested to Romeo : — 

At this same ancient feast of Capulet's 
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st, 
With all the admired beauties of Verona. 
Go thither, and with unattainted eye 
Compare her face with some that I shall show, 
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 

RoMEO. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, 
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own. 

Although Romeo scouted the suggestion that there 
could be any one fairer than Rosaline, yet he ventured 
to don a mask, and take the risk of being recognized in 
the house of his hereditary foe. 

At this masquerade, Juliet, the sole heir of the house 
of Capulet, was to make her debut ; for, although she 
was but fourteen years of age, her father considered her 
quite old enough to marry. He favored the suit of the 
young Count Paris, kinsman of the prince, and he hoped 

44 



that, as a result of their meeting at the ball, Juliet would 
fall in love with Count Paris. 

The old saying, '* Love goes where it is sent," was,^, 
however, to be perfectly fulfilled in this case. The 
moment Romeo's glance fell upon the fair, sweet Juliet, 
he lost all thought of his former love, and had eyes for 
none but her. He exclaimed in ecstasy : — 

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! 
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear ; 
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. 
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, 
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. 
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight ! 
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. 

In speaking aloud, Romeo entirely forgot the danger 
of self-betrayal, and his voice was recognized by Tybalt, 
nephew of the Capulets, who happened to overhear him. 
It angered Tybalt to find that a Montague should pre- 
sume to attend a feast of the Capulets, and he said to 
his servant : — 

Fetch me my rapier, boy. — What dares the slave 
Come hither, covered with an antic face,^ 
To fleer ^ and scorn at our solemnity ? 
Now, by the stock and honor of my kin, 
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. 

Hearing Tybalt's wrathful words. Lord Capulet in- 
quired : — 

1 referring to Romeo's rnask. 2 sneer. 

45 



Why, how now, kinsman ! wherefore storm you so ? 

Tybalt. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, 
A villain that is hither come in spite. 
To scorn at our solemnity this night. 
Capulet. Young Romeo is it? 

Tybalt. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo. 

Capulet. Content^ thee, gentle coz, let him alone : 
He bears him like a portly gentleman ; 
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him 
To be a virtuous and well-governed youth. 
I would not for the wealth of all the town 
Here in my house do him disparagement ; 
Therefore be patient, take no note of him : 
It is my will, the which if thou respect, 
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, 
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. 

Tybalt resented this interference, and withdrew in 
high dudgeon, uttering threats of vengeance against the 
upstart Montague, when they should meet elsewhere. 

Romeo, entirely unconscious of Tybalt's wrath, made 
his way to the side of Juliet at the first opportunity. 
Love made him bold, and when he dared to take a kiss 
from her lips, she did not repulse him, for she had also 
fallen in love at first sight. Her mother, who was watch- 
ing her, knew that it was not Paris to whom Juliet was 
giving her favors, and she sent to call her daughter from 
the ardent Romeo. 

When he learned that she who had taken his heart 
captive was the daughter of the house of Capulet, Romeo 
was in despair. Juliet, on her part, was equally dis- 

1 compose yourself. 
46 



tressed when, having sent a servant to ask the name of 
the gallant youth, she was told : — 

His name is Romeo, and a Montague, 
The only son of your great enemy. 

Juliet. -My only love sprung from my only hate ! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late ! 
Prodigious ^ birth of love it is to me, 
That I must love a loathed enemy. 

Romeo left the house v/ith his friends, but the violence 
of his new love made him linger near the home of his 
beauteous lady. He exclaimed : — 

Can I go forward when my heart is here ? 
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. 

So saying, he leaped over the wall of the Capulets' 
garden and wandered among the shrubbery until he was 
rewarded by the sight of Juliet, who leaned out of her 
moon-lighted window. In a trance of delight, he mur- 
mured : — 

But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? 

It is my lady, O, it is my love ! 

O, that she knew she were ! — 

She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that? 

Her eye discourses ; I will answer it. 

I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks. 

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 

Having some business, do entreat her eyes 

To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 

What if her eyes were there, they in her head? 

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 

1 portentous, ominous. 
47 



As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! 

Juliet. Ay me ! 

Romeo. She speaks : 

O, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Juliet. O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou, Romeo ? 
Deny thy father and refuse thy name ; 
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ; 
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, 
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part 
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name ! 
What's in a name? that which we call a rose 
By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes ^ 
Without that title. — Romeo, doff thy name. 
And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
Take all myself. 

Juliet, who supposed herself alone with the night, was 
startled at hearing a voice reply : — 

1 possesses. 
48 



I take thee at thy word : 
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized ; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

Juliet. What man art thou that thus bescreened in night 
So stumblest on ray counsel? 

Romeo. By a name 

I know not how to tell thee who I am. 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee ; 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 

Juliet. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. — 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? 

Romeo. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. 

Juliet. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? 
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb. 
And the place death, considering who thou art. 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 

Romeo. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls. 
For stony limits cannot hold love out. 
And what love can do, that dares love attempt. 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let^ to me. 

Juliet. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 

Romeo. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes ; 
And but thou love me, let them find me here : 
My Hfe were better ended by their hate, 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 

Juliet was too sincere to play the coquette, and too 
true to have any false modesty. She was perfectly 
aware that Romeo must have heard what she had said 
when she thought herself alone ; so she confessed art- 
lessly : — 

1 hindrance. 
E 49 



Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke ; but farewell, compliment ! 
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say ay, 
And I will take thy word. O gentle Romeo, 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : 
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. 
And therefore thou mayst think my havior ^ hght ; 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,^ 
My true love's passion ; therefore pardon me. 
And not impute this yielding to light love. 
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 

Romeo was about to swear eternal constancy, but 
Juliet interrupted him, for his simple promise, not oaths, 
was all that she desired. She felt oppressed by the vio- 
lence and the suddenness of this passion. She knew 
that they ought to part, so she bade her lover : — 

Sweet, good night ! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast ! 

Romeo. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
1 behavior. 2 aware. 

SO 



Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 

Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night mdeed. 
If that thy bent of love be honorable, 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, 
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 

Young in years though she was, love had, in a flash, 
as it were, transformed Juliet into a woman. Hence 
this unreserved surrender of herself. She knew that 
family pride would forbid an open marriage with one of 
the hated Montagues ; therefore, in order to be true to 
the holy love which possessed her soul, she felt that she 
must act for herself, without consulting her parents. 
The only person whom Juliet could trust with her secret 
was an old nurse who was wholly devoted to her inter- 
est. This was the messenger whom she resolved to 
send to Romeo in the morning. 

Before retiring, however, Juliet went again to the 
window, hoping for one more word with her lover. She 
was not disappointed, for Romeo still lingered, longing 
to hear her sweet voice once again. As she called his 
name, quickly came the response : — 

It is my soul that calls upon my name ; 

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 

Like softest music to attending ears ! 

Juliet. Romeo, at what o'clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee? 

Romeo. At the hour of nine. 

Juliet. I will not fail ; 'tis twenty years till then. 
SI 



I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Romeo. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 

Juliet. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Remembering how I love thy company. 
Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow, 
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. 

Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! 

When Romeo left Juliet, he at once repaired to the 
cell of a certain Friar Laurence, who was father-con- 
fessor for both families. It was now early morning, 
and the good friar was already astir gathering herbs. 
As he worked, he thus communed with himself : — 

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies 
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities ! 
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live 
But to the earth some special good doth give ; 
Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use. 
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. 
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied. 
And vice sometime's by action dignified. 
Within the infant rind of this weak flower 
Poison hath residence, and medicine power ; 
Two such opposed kings encamp them still 
In man as well as herbs, — grace and rude will. 

The friar's reflections were interrupted by Romeo, 
who sought him for advice and assistance in the matter 
of his proposed marriage with the daughter of his 
enemy. Friar Laurence consented to unite the lovers, 
hoping that their union would result in healing the feud. 
In the afternoon of that same day, therefore, Romeo 
and Juliet were wedded with the blessing of the church. 

52 



The fiery Tybalt, whom his Uncle Capulet had re- 
strained from summarily chastising Romeo for appear- 
ing at the ball, was determined to punish the rash 
youth at his first opportunity. Late that day, after 
Romeo's marriage rites had been celebrated, the oppor- 
tunity came. Benvolio and Mercutio, partisans of the 
Montagues, were passing along the street, when they 
encountered Tybalt, who inquired where he could find 
Romeo. Even as he spoke, Romeo came in sight. 
Tybalt at once accosted him in a violent manner, 
saying : — 

Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford 

No better term than this, — thou art a villain. 

Romeo returned a mild answer, for now that Juliet 
was his wife, he desired to avoid quarrelling with any 
of the Capulets. Tybalt refused to be pacified, how- 
ever, and Mercutio took the quarrel upon himself. In 
the sword-fencing that followed, Mercutio was mortally 
wounded. This bloody deed Romeo felt that it was 
his duty to avenge. He argued : — 

This gentleman, the prince's near ally, 

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 

In my behalf; my reputation stained 

With Tybalt's slander ; — Tybalt, that an hour 

Hath been my cousin ! — O sweet Juliet, 

Thy beauty hath made me effeminate, 

And in my temper softened valor's steel ! 

The sight of Tybalt triumphing over Mercutio slain 
. aroused his fury, and he shouted : — 

53 



Now, Tybalt, take the " villain " back again 
That late thou gav'st me ! for Mercutio's soul 
Is but a Httle way above our heads, 
Staying for thine to keep him company ; 
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 

Tybalt. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, 
Shalt with him hence. 

This proved a vain boast, for it was Tybalt, not 
Romeo, who was slain in the duel. Romeo had barely 
escaped, at the entreaty of his friend Benvolio, when the 
prince, together with the heads of the two rival houses, 
appeared upon the scene. Benvolio related truthfully all 
that had happened, and since, in slaying Tybalt, Romeo 
had avenged the death of Mercutio, the kinsman of 
the prince, his punishment was made exile, instead of 
death. The prince sternly told Capulet and Mon- 
tague : — 

My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding ; 
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses ; 
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses : 
Therefore use none ; let Romeo hence in haste. 
Else, when he's found, that hour is his last. 
Bear hence this body, and attend our will ; 
Mercy but murthers, pardoning those that kill. 

Romeo had fled to Friar Laurence for protection, 
but when that faithful friend brought him word of the 
prince's sentence, telling him : — 

Hence from Verona art thou banished ; 

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide : — 

instead of rejoicing that he had not been condemned 

54 



to death, Romeo thought of nothing but the separation 
from his bride. He bitterly bewailed his fate, saying : — 

'Tis torture, and not mercy : heaven is here, 

Where Juliet lives ; and every cat and dog 

And little mouse, every unworthy thing, 

Live here in heaven, and may look on her, 

But Romeo may not ; he is banished. 

And say'st thou yet that exile is not death? 

Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife. 

No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean. 

But " banished " to kill me? 

Friar Laurence. Thou fond mad man, hear me but 
speak a word. 

RoMEO. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. 
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love. 
An hour but married, Tybalt murthered. 
Doting like me and like me banished. 
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, 
And fall upon the ground, as I do now. 
Taking the measure of an unmade grave. 

At this moment a knock was heard. The newcomer 
proved to be Juliet's nurse, whom Juliet had sent to 
find her husband and to assure him of her undying 
love. At sight of the nurse, Romeo started up, inquir- 
ing in agonized tones what his lady said of him who 
had taken the life of her kinsman. The nurse replied : — 

O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps ; 
And now falls on her bed ; and then starts up, 
And Tybalt calls ; and then on Romeo cries. 
And then falls down again. 

RoMEO. As if that name, 

55 



Shot from the deadly level of a gun, 

Did murther her ; as that name's cursed hand 

Murthered her kinsman. — O, tell me, friar, tell me, 

In what vile part of this anatomy 

Doth my name lodge ? tell me, that I may sack 

The hateful mansion. 

With that Romeo drew his sword, and in his frenzy he 
might have taken his own life also, had not the friar 
interposed : — 

Hold thy desperate hand ! 
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art : 
Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts denote 
The unreasonable fury of a beast. 
Thou hast amazed me ; by my holy order, 
I thought thy disposition better tempered. 
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself? 
And slay thy lady too that lives in thee. 
By doing damned hate upon thyself? 
V/hy rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? 
What, rouse thee, man ! thy Juliet is alive, 
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead ; 
There art thou happy : Tybalt would kill thee, 
But thou slew'st Tybalt ; there art thou happy too : 
The law that threatened death becomes thy friend 
And turns it to exile ; there art thou happy : 
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back ; 
Happiness courts thee in her best array ; 
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, 
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. 
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 

Friar Laurence advised Romeo to take up his resi- 
dence in Mantua, saying that he would send him 

56 



frequent messages concerning the state of affairs in 
Verona. He promised also to use his utmost influ- 
ence to reconcile the two hostile families to Romeo's 
marriage with Juliet, and to persuade the prince to 
pardon Romeo. Then he bade the nurse go tell her 
mistress that Romeo was coming to comfort her with a 
sweet farewell. 

Nurse. O Lord, I could have stayed here all the night 
To hear good counsel ; O what learning is ! — 
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. 

RoMEO. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. 

Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir ; 
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. 

RoMEO. How well my comfort is revived by this ! 

Friar Laurence. Go hence; good night; and here 
stands all your state : 
Either be gone before the watch be set. 
Or by the break of day disguised from hence. 
Sojourn in Mantua ; I'll find out your man, 
And he shall signify from time to time 
Every good hap to you that chances here. 
Give me thy hand ; 'tis late : farewell ; good night. 

The stolen moments of leave-taking passed all too 
quickly. As morning dawned, Romeo warned his sweet 
wife that they must part. Juliet protested : — 

Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark. 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree. 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 

57 



No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day- 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

Juliet. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I ; 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
And light thee on thy way to Mantua : 
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. 

Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me put to death. 
I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye, 
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. 
I have more care to stay than will to go ; 
Come, death, and welcome ! Juhet wills it so. 
How is't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day. 

Juliet. It is, it is ; hie hence, be gone, away ! 
It is the lark that sings so out of tune. 
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. 
Some say the lark makes sweet division ; 
This doth not so, for she divideth us. 
O, now be gone ; more light and light it grows. 

Romeo. More light and light ? — More dark and dark 
our woes ! 

As Romeo descended, Juliet besought him : — 

Art thou gone so ? my lord, my love, my friend ! 
I must hear from thee every day in the hour, 
For in a minute there are many days ; 
O, by this count I shall be much in years 
Ere I again behold my Romeo ! 

58 



Romeo. Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity 
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 

Juliet. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? 

Romeo. I doubt it not ; and all these woes shall serve 
For sweet discourses in our time to come. 

Hardly had Romeo gone, when Juliet was dismayed 
by receiving an imperative command from her father 
that she should give her hand in marriage to Count 
Paris on the following Thursday, only three days later. 
In vain did the poor girl plead for delay on account 
of the recent death of their kinsman Tybalt. Equally 
vain were her prayers to be excused from marrying on 
account of her extreme youth. Her father was very angry 
that she should dare to oppose his will, for he was one 
who regarded himself as the rightful arbiter of his child's 
destiny. His wrath waxed so furious that he stormed: — 

Hang thee, young baggage ! disobedient wretch ! 
1 tell thee what : get thee to church o' Thursday, 
Or never after look me in the face. 
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. 

To Lady Capulet he said : — 

It makes me mad : day, night, late, early, 

At home, abroad, alone, in company. 

Waking, or sleeping, still my care hath been 

To have her matched ; and having now provided 

A gentleman of noble parentage, 

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly trained, 

Stuffed, as they say, with honorable parts, 

Proportioned as one's thoughts would wish a man, — 

And then to have a wretched puling fool, 

59 



To answer " I'll not wed ; I cannot love, 

I am too young ; I pray you, pardon me." — 

Then he threatened Juliet : — 

But an^ you will not wed, I'll pardon you ; 
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me : 
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest. 
Thursday is near ; lay hand on heart, advise. 
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend ; 
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, 
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee. 
Nor wha.t is mine shall never do thee good. 
Trust to't, bethink you ; I'll not be forsworn. 

Juliet. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, 
That sees into the bottom of my grief ? 
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! 
Delay this marriage, for a month, a week ; 
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. 

Lady Capulet. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a 
word ; 
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. 

Even the old nurse, to whom Juliet turned in her 
distress, advised her to accede to her father's wishes ; 
for the worldly-wise woman argued that Romeo was as 
good as dead ; and probably she was afraid of the con- 
sequences to herself, if her part in the secret marriage 
should become known. 

As a last hope, Juliet repaired to the cell of Friar Lau- 
rence, to entreat his kind offices in this extremity, saying : — 

I'll to the friar, to know his remedy ; 
If all else fail, myself have power to die. 

Mf. 

60 



In her desperation, she threatened to take her own life, 
unless the good friar could devise some way of escape. 
Her courage and determination emboldened the priest 
to say : — 

Hold, daughter ! I do spy a kind of hope, 

Which craves as desperate an execution 

As that is desperate which we would prevent. 

If, rather than to marry County Paris, 

Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, 

Then is it hkely thou wilt undertake 

A thing like death to chide away this shame, 

That cop'st with death himself to scape from it ; 

And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. 

Juliet. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
From off the battlements of yonder tower ; 
Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk 
Where serpents are ; chain me with roaring bears ; 
Or bid me go into a new-made grave 
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud ; 
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble; 
And I will do it without fear or doubt. 
To live an unstained wife to my sweet love. 

Then Friar Laurence unfolded his plan. On Wednes- 
day night Juliet was to dismiss her nurse, and, when she 
was alone in her bed, she was to drink a potion which 
he would give her. Its effect would be that she would 
fall into a cold sleep, the perfect image of death, a trance 
of forty-two hours' duration. The friar continued : — 

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes 
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead : 
Then, as the manner of our country is, 

6i 



In thy best robes uncovered on the bier 
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault 
Where all the kindred of the Capulets he. 
In the meantime, against thou shalt awake, 
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, 
And hither shall he come ; and he and I 
Will watch thy waking, and that very night 
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. 
And this shall free thee from this present shame. 
If no inconstant toy ^ nor womanish fear 
Abate thy valor in the acting it. 

Juliet. Give me, give me ! O, tell me not of fear ! 

Friar Laurence. Hold ; get you gone, be strong and 
prosperous 
In this resolve : I'll send a friar with speed 
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. 

Juliet. Love give me strength ! and strength shall help 
afford. 
Farewell, dear father ! 

Juliet's resolution carried her through the dreadful 
ordeal. The night before she was expected to wed with 
Paris she calmly swallowed the draught given her by 
Friar Laurence. And when they came to waken her 
to go to the church, they found her lying still and cold. 
Her father, touched by the sorrowful sight, mourned : — 

Death lies on her hke an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 
All things that we ordained festival, 
Turn from their office to black funeral : 
Our instruments to melancholy bells. 
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, 

1 fickle freak. 
62 



Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, 
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, 
And all things change them to the contrary. 

Friar Laurence, who had been summoned to officiate 
at the marriage, uttered a solemn reproof, bidding the 

friends : — 

— every one prepare 
To follow this fair corse unto her grave. 
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill ; 
Move them no more by crossing their high will. 

The messenger whom Friar Laurence despatched to 
inform Romeo of Juliet's voluntary putting-on of death's 
counterfeit through love for him, was unfortunately de- 
tained by health officers, who suspected him of having 
been exposed to the pestilence. Instead, therefore, of 
learning the truth from the letter of Friar Laurence, 
Romeo was thrown into despair by the report of Juliet's 
death brought by his man, who hastened to Mantua to 
tell his master what had happened. As Balthasar met 
him, Romeo asked eagerly : — 

How doth my lady? Is my father well? 
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again ; 
For nothing can be ill, if she be well. 

Balthasar. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill ; 
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument. 
And her immortal part with angels lives. 
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, 
And presently took post to tell it you. 
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, 
Since you did leave it for my office, sir. 

Romeo. Is it even so ? then I defy you, stars ! — 
63 



Thou know'st my lodging : get me ink and paper 
And hire post-horses ; I will hence to-night. 

Balthasar. I do beseech yon, sir, have patience ; 
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import 
Some misadventure. 

Romeo. Tush, thou art deceived ; 

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. 

Not for an instant did it occur to Romeo that there 
could be any mistake. He had but one thought, and 
that was to lie beside Juliet in the tomb. With this 
thought came the question of how that could be accom- 
plished. Then he exclaimed : — 

O mischief, thou art swift 
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! 
I do remember an apothecary, — 
And hereabouts he dwells, — which late I noted 
In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows, 
CuUing of simples ; meagre were his looks, 
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones : 
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, 
An alligator stuffed, and other skins 
Of ill-shaped fishes ; and about his shelves 
A beggarly account of empty boxes. 
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds. 
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses, 
Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. 
Noting this penury, to myself Isaid, 
An if a man did need a poison now. 
Whose sale is present death in IMantua, 
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. 
O, this same thought did but forerun my need, 
And this same needy man must sell it me ! 

64 



Just as Romeo had anticipated, the starving apothe- 
cary was easily induced to sell him a deadly poison, for, 
in his wretched plight, he could not resist the offer of 
gold. Armed with this death potion, therefore, the 
grief-stricken Romeo set out for Verona. 

Now it happened that, on the same night of Romeo's 
arrival, Paris, who also grieved sorely for the loss of 
her whom he had hoped to make his bride, went to the 
churchyard, carrying flowers with which to deck Juliet's 
bier. As he walked towards the tomb of the Capulets, 
he lamented : — 

Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew. 

O woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones, 
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, 

Or, wanting that, with tears distilled by moans ; 
The obsequies that I for thee will keep 
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. 

At this moment, a page, whom Paris had stationed to 
keep watch, warned him that some one was approaching ; 
so he concealed himself within the friendly shelter of a 
yew tree. Being utterly ignorant of Romeo's connection 
with Juliet, he was astonished to see that young man 
coming toward the tomb, and he surmised that Romeo, 
who had slain Tybalt, intended some shameful injury to 
the dead. 

Romeo, on his part, had no suspicion of the presence 
of other listeners than Balthasar, to whom he gave this 
charge : — 

Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. 
F 65 



Hold, take this letter ; early in the morning 

See thou deliver it to my lord and father. 

Give me the light. Upon thy life, I charge thee, 

Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof. 

And do not interrupt me in my course. 

Why I descend into this bed of death 

Is partly to behold my lady's face. 

But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger 

A precious ring, a ring that I must use 

In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone ; 

But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry 

In what I further shall intend to do, 

By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint 

And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. ^ 

The time and my intents are savage-wild. 

More fierce and more inexorable far 

Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. 

Live and be prosperous ; and farewell, good fellow. 

Balthasar retired, but only for a short distance, so 
alarmed was he by Romeo's wild looks and words. Thus 
it happened that, when Romeo forced open the tomb of 
the Capulets, there were two witnesses to his violence. 
Paris rushed forward, exclaiming : — 

Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague ! 
Can vengeance be pursued further than death? 
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee : 
Obey, and go with me ; for thou must die. 

Romeo. I must indeed, and therefore came I hither. 
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man ; 
Fly hence, and leave me : think upon these gone ; 
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, 
Put not another sin upon my head, 

66 



By urging me to fury; O, be gone ! 
By heaven, I love thee better than myself; 
For I come hither armed against myself. 
Stay not, be gone ; hve, and hereafter say, 
A madman's mercy bade thee run away. 

But Paris would not listen. He forced Romeo into 
fighting with him — Romeo, who did not even know who 
his antagonist was. In the struggle, Paris was slain, 
and as he fell, he prayed : — 

If thou be merciful, 
Open the tomb, lay me with JuUet. 

Romeo. In faith, I will. — Let me peruse this face. 
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris ! 
What said my man, when my betossed soul 
Did not attend him as we rode ? I think 
He told me Paris should have married Juliet ; 
Said he not so ? or did I dream it so ? 
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 
To think it was so ? — O, give me thy hand, 
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! 
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave, — 
A grave ? O, no ! a lantern, slaughtered youth ; 
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes 
This vault a feasting presence full of light. 

So saying, Romeo tenderly placed the slain Paris in 
the tomb. 

It was nearing the hour when the power of the draught 
which Juliet had swallowed should loosen its hold, and 
life should be restored. As Romeo hung over her in 
an ecstasy of grief, he felt, but did not understand, the 
surging of returning life. He cried in agony : — 

67 



O my love ! my wife ! 
Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : 
Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy hps and in thy cheeks, 
And death's pale flag is not advanced there. — 

Ah, dear Juliet, 
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe 
That unsubstantial Death is amorous? 
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee ; 
And never from this palace of dim night 
Depart again. — Eyes, look your last ! 
Arms, take your last embrace ! and lips, O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! 
Come, bitter conduct, come unsavory guide ! 
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark ! 
Here's to my love ! — O true apothecary ! 
Thy drugs are quick. — Thus with a kiss I die. 

Alas, that Romeo could not have been delayed a little 
longer ! For even at that moment the steps of one who 
could have set all right were hastening to the tomb. 
Friar Laurence had just learned of the failure of his 
messenger to reach Romeo in time, and he intended to 
be at Juliet's side when she should awake. His plan 
was to keep her at the monastery until such time as he 
could get word to Romeo to come and claim his bride. 
As the friar entered the churchyard, he was met by 
Balthasar, who told him that Romeo had been in the 
tomb full half an hour. At the entrance of the tomb, 

68 



he found the blood-stained swords with which the 
unhappy rivals had fought. Entering, he cried : — 

Romeo ! O, pale ! — Who else ? what, Paris too ? 
And steeped in blood ? — Ah, what an unkind hour 
Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! — 
The lady stirs. 

Juliet. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord? — 
I do remember well where I should be, 
And there I am. — Where is my Romeo? 

Friar Laurence. I hear some noise. Come, come 
away. 
Thy husband in thy bosom there hes dead ; 
And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee 
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns : 
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; 
Come, go, good Juliet. — I dare no longer stay. 

Juliet. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. 

Then, as the friar left her, she looked about, say- 
ing:— 

What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand? 

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. — 

O churl ! drunk all, and left no friendly drop 

To help me after? — I will kiss thy lips ; 

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, 

To make me die with a restorative. 

Thy lips are warm. 

Hearing the rapidly approaching steps of the guard, 
Juliet snatched her husband's dagger from his belt, and 
plunging it into her heart, died upon his breast. 

The whole city was soon aroused. The heads of the 
houses of Capulet and Montague met at the tomb 

69 



where lay the flower of both famiHes, sacrificed to their 
wicked hate. The prince heard the testimony of Friar 
Laurence, who told the whole story of these unhappy 
lovers ; of Romeo's man, Balthasar ; and of the page of 
Paris. He read the letter which Romeo had intrusted 
to Balthasar, in which he had confessed to the taking 
of poison that he might die beside Juliet. Then he 
cried : — 

Where be these enemies? — Capulet ! — Montague I 

See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate, 

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love ! 

And I, for winking at your discords too, 

Have lost a brace of kinsmen ; all are punished. 

And there, above the dead bodies of their children, 
Capulet and Montague clasped hands in token of re- 
pentance for the wicked feud which had brought such 
sorrow to their hearts. Montague pledged himself to 
raise a statue of pure gold to the memory of true and 
faithful Juliet ; and Capulet promised to honor Romeo's 
memory as richly. Their reconciliation was complete, 
but too late to save the lives of the ill-starred lovers. 
As the prince expressed it : — 

A glooming peace this morning with it brings ; 

The sun for sorrow will not show his head. 
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ; 

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished : 
For never was a story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. 



70 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

A FEW centuries ago, the city of Venice in Italy was 
famed for its great magnificence. It was then the lead- 
ing commercial port in Europe. 

Among its wealthy merchants was one Antonio, who, 
having no family of his own, had attracted to himself 
by his free hospitality a group of pleasure-loving young 
men, who were sincerely attached to the warm-hearted 
merchant. 

One day, however, Antonio found himself suffering 
from an unaccountable depression of spirits. His friends 
tried in vain to rally him, so they at last fell in with his 
sad humor, and sought to explain it to him and them- 
selves. Antonio told them : — 

In sooth,^ I know not why I am so sad : 
It wearies me, you say it wearies you ; 
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, 
I am to learn ; 

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me 
That I have much ado to know myself. 

Salarino, one of his friends, replied : — 

Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 
There, where your argosies with portly sail, 

1 truth. 

73 



Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, 
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, 
Do overpeer the petty traffickers. 
That curtsy to them, do them reverence, 
As they fly by them with their woven wings. 

Salanio, another of the group, added : — 

Beheve me, sir, had I such venture forth, 
The better part of my affecdons would 
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still 
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind, 
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads ; 
And every object that might make me fear 
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt. 
Would make me sad. 

Salarino. My wind, cooling my broth. 

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run. 
But I should think of shallows and of flats. 
And see my wealthy Andrew ^ docked in sand, 
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church. 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks. 
Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks. 
And, in a word, but even now worth this. 
And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought 
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
That such a thing bechanced would make me sad ? 

1 my richl}'^ freighted ship. 
74 



But tell not me ; I know, Antonio 
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 

Antonio. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it, 
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 
Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
Upon the fortune of this present year : 
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 

Salarino. Why, then you are in love. 

Antonio. Fie, fie ! 

Salarino. Not in love neither ? Then let us say you 
are sad 
Because you are not merry ; and 'twere as easy 
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, 
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, 
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time : 
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes 
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper ; 
And other of such vinegar aspect 
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, 
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 

At this moment, they were joined by others of this 
company of friends. Bassanio was known to be espe- 
cially dear to Antonio, so after a little more bantering 
of the down-hearted merchant, the rest left those two 
together. 

Thereupon Antonio asked Bassanio to confide to him, 
as he had promised to do, the secret desire of his heart. 
Bassanio replied : — 

'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, 
How much I have disabled mine estate. 
By something showing a more swelling port 
Than my faint means would grant continuance : 

1^ 



Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 
From such a noble rate ; but my chief care 
Is to come fairly off from the great debts 
Wherein my time, something too prodigal, 
Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, 
I owe the most, in money, and in love ; 
And from your love I have a warranty 
To unburthen all my plots and purposes, 
How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 

Antonio. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it ; 
And if it stand, as you yourself still do, 
Within the eye of honor, be assured. 
My purse, my person, my extremest means, 
Lie all unlocked to your occasions. 

With this encouragement, Bassanio continued : — 

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, 

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 

The self- same way, with more advised watch, 

To find the other forth ; and by adventuring both, 

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof. 

Because what follows is pure innocence. 

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth. 

That which I owe is lost ; but if you please 

To shoot another arrow that self way 

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 

As I will watch the aim, or to find both. 

Or bring your latter hazard back again, 

And thankfully rest debtor for the first. 

Antonio felt hurt that Bassanio should ask in this 
roundabout way; so he rejoined : — 

You know me well, and herein spend but time 
To wind about my love with circumstance ; 

76 



And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong 
In making question of my uttermost, 
Than if you had made waste of all I have. 
Then do but say to me what I should do, 
. That in your knowledge may by me be done, 
And I am prest ^ unto it ; therefore speak. 

Bassanio. In Belmont is a lady richly left ; 
And she is fair and, fairer than that word, 
Of wondrous virtues : sometimes from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages. 
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued - 
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia ; 
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth; 
For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors ; and her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ; 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, 
And many Jasons come in quest of her. 

my Antonio, had I but the means. 
To hold a rival place with one of them, 

1 have a mind presages me such thrift, 
That I should questionless ^ be fortunate. 

Antonio. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea ; 
Neither have I money nor commodity 
To raise a present sum : therefore go forth ; 
Try what my credit can in Venice do : 
That shall be racked, even to the uttermost, 
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 
Where money is, and I no question make 
To have it of my trust, or for my sake. 

Pursuant to the permission granted by Antonio, Bas- 

1 ready for. 2 without doubt. 



sanio sought Shylock the Jew, a wealthy money-lender, 
and preferred his request for the loan of three thousand 
ducats, giving Antonio's name as security. Now there 
was mutual hatred between Jews and Christians at this 
period in history, and the feeling was especially bitter 
between Shylock and Antonio. Still, in the hope of 
somehow getting Antonio into his power, Shylock was 
willing to loan this money. He was very deliberate, 
however, choosing to tantalize the impatient Bassanio. 
The shrewd old money-lender said meditatively : — 

Three thousand ducats, — well. 

Bassanio. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shylock. For three months, — well. 

Bassanio. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be 
bound. 

Shylock. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 

Bassanio. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? 
Shall I know your answer? 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats for three months, and 
Antonio bound. 

Bassanio. Your answer to that. 

Shylock. Antonio is a good man. 

Bassanio. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? 

Shylock. Ho, no, no, no, no ; my meaning, in saying he is 
a good man. is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. 
Yet his means are in supposition : he hath an argosy bound to 
Tripolis, another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, upon 
the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and 
other ventures he hath, squandered ^ abroad. But ships are but 
boards, sailors but men : there be land-rats and water-rats, land- 
thieves and water-thieves, — I mean pirates ; and then there is 

1 scatteied. 
78 



the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwith- 
standing, sufficient. Three thousand ducats, — I think I may 
take his bond. 

Bassanio. Be assured you may. 

Shylock. I will be assured I may ; and that I may be 
assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio ? 

Bassanio. If it please you to dine with us. 

Now it was an unheard-of thing for a Jew to eat 
with a Christian. By the Mosaic law the Jews were 
forbidden to eat pork. Shylock, therefore, took this 
halfway invitation as an insult, and he burst out indig- 
nantly : — 

Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your 
prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with 
you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so follow- 
ing ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with 
you. Who is he comes here? 

It was Antonio approaching. He was also coming 
to ask Shylock to lend him the money on his bond. At 
that time the Christian money-lenders were not in the 
habit of taking interest on their money, and they despised 
the Jews still more for doing so. Antonio had taken 
every opportunity of interfering with Shylock's business, 
so it is not surprising that, at sight of him, Shylock should 
mutter angrily to himself : — 

How like a fawning pubUcan he looks ! 

I hate him for he is a Christian, 

But more for that, in low simplicity, 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 

The rate of usance here with us in Venice- 

79 



If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 

Even there where merchants most do congregate, 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 

If I forgive him ! 

Bassanio was growing impatient, and he now de- 
manded : — 

Shylock, do you hear? 
Shylock. I am debating of my present store ; 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
Will furnish me. 

The depth of Antonio's friendship for Bassanio may 
be understood by his being willing to put aside his pride 
and borrow money on interest. He told Shylock : — 

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow 
By taking nor by giving of excess, 
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
I'll break a custom. 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats, — 'tis a good round 
sum. 
Three months from twelve, — then, let me see the rate. 
Antonio. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding^ to 
you? 

At this word the feeling of the injustice of the Chris- 
tians toward his people, which had so long been smoth- 

1 beholden, under obligation, 
80 



ered in his bosom, could no longer be restrained, and 
Shylock spoke in burning words : — 

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 

In the Rialto, you have rated me 

About my moneys and my usances ; 

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 

And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, 

And all for use of that which is mine own. 

Well then, it now appears you need my help : 

Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 

" Shylock, we would have moneys ; " you say so, 

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard. 

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 

Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 

What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 

" Hath a dog money? Is it possible 

A cur should lend three thousand ducats? " Or 

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key. 

With bated breath and whispering humbleness. 

Say this : 

" Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; 

You spurned me such a day ; another time 

You called me dog ; and for these courtesies 

I'll lend you thus much moneys? " 

Antonio. I am as like to call thee so again, 
To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take 
A breed of barren metal of his friend? 
But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 

G 8i 



Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

In response to this scornful outburst, Shylock changed 
his tone, and craftily pretended to desire to treat Antonio 
as a friend, not requiring interest for the loan. He 
rejoined : — 

Why, look you, how you storm ! 
I would be friends with you, and have your love, 
Forget the shames that you have stained me with, 
Supply your present wants, and take no doit ^ 
Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me. 
This kindness will I show. 
Go with me to a notary ; seal me there 
Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off" and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Antonio. Content, i' faith ; I'll seal to such a bond. 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bassanio. You shall not seal to such a bond for me ; 
I'll rather dwell in my necessity. 

Antonio. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it : 
Within these two months — that's a month before 
This bond expires — I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shylock. O father Abram ! what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard deahngs teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! — Pray you, tell me this : 

1 the smallest amount. 
82 



If he should break his day, what should I gain 

By the exaction of the forfeiture? 

A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, 

Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 

To buy his favor, I extend this friendship : 

If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu : 

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Antonio. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shylock. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's. 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight,^ 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave,^ and presently 
I will be with you. 

Antonio. Hie thee, gentle Jew. — 

The Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. 

Bassanio. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. 

Antonio. Come on : in this there can be no dismay ; 
My ships come home a month before the day. 

The lady Portia, whose praises Bassanio had sounded 
so highly, was wearied by the presence of numerous 
suitors in her mansion of Belmont, for they all fell be- 
low her standard of noble manhood. She complained 
to her maid, Nerissa, who was a trusted friend as well : — 

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great 
world. 

Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were 
in the same abundance as your good fortunes are ; and yet, for 
aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they 
that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness to be seated 

1 immediately. 2 boy. 

83 



in the mean : superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but com- 
petency lives longer. 

Portia. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 

Nerissa. They would be better, if well followed. 

Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good 
to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages 
princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own in- 
structions ; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be 
done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. 
The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper 
leaps o'er a cold decree : such a hare is madness, the youth, to 
skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. But this 
reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. — O 
me, the word " choose ! " I may neither choose whom I would, 
nor refuse whom I dishke ; so is the will of a hving daughter 
curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, 
that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? 

Portia's complaint was due to the singular provisions 
of her father's will. Her father had evidently feared 
that the large fortune which he had left his daughter 
would lead mercenary men to seek her hand simply for 
the sake of obtaining her wealth. For, in those times, 
whatever property a woman possessed became her hus- 
band's at marriage. So the will provided that whoever 
should seek to marry Portia must choose one of three 
caskets, the right choice being indicated by the contents 
of the casket, namely, that containing Portia's picture. 

Nerissa had perfect confidence in the wisdom of 
Portia's father, so she replied : — 

Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death 
have good inspirations ; therefore the lottery that he hath de- 

84 



vised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead — whereof 
who chooses his meaning chooses you — will, no doubt, never 
be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. 

Although Portia felt so keenly the hardship imposed 
upon her by the humiliating conditions of her father's 
will, she decided to obey, at whatever cost to herself. 
She rejoiced to hear Nerissa say that the suitors then 
at Belmont had all signified their intention of leaving 
without making choice of a casket, as they were not 
willing to take the oath prescribed by the will. 

For, in order to protect his daughter from unscrupu- 
lous fortune-hunters, the father had required whoever 
should choose to take a solemn oath, — first, never, 
in case he should fail, to seek the hand of another 
woman in marriage ; second, to leave Belmont at once ; 
third, not to reveal which casket he had chosen. 
Nerissa told Portia : — 

You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords : they 
have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is, indeed, 
to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, 
unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's 
imposition depending on the caskets. 

Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste 
as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's 
will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for 
there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence ; 
and I wish them a fair departure. 

Nerissa. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, 
a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in com- 
pany of the Marquis of Montferrat ? 

85 



Portia. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, so was he 
called. 

Nerissa. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my 
foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy 
of thy praise. 

Directly after the departure of these suitors, another 
was announced, — the Prince of Morocco. He had the 
dark skin of the African climate, and he feared that 
Portia would be so prejudiced against him on that 
account, that he would not be given a fair chance. He 
was a man of honor and of valor, and he plead his cause 
with the ardor of a warm temperament : — 

Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, 
The shadowed livery of the burnished sun, 
To whom I am a neighbor and near bred. 
Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, 
And let us make incision for your love. 
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. 
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 
Hath feared the valiant ; by my love I swear 
The best-regarded virgins of our chme 
Have loved it too. I would not change this hue, 
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 

Portia. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes ; 
Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing ; 
But if my father had not scanted me, 
And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told you, 

86 



Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 
As any comer I have looked on yet, 
For my affection. 

Morocco. Even for that I thank you ; 

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets 
To try my fortune. 

Morocco's love for Portia was true enough to make 
him willing to take the prescribed oath. After that 
ceremony had been concluded in the chapel of Belmont, 
the prince was taken to the room where the caskets 
stood, hidden by curtains. Portia bade a servant — 

Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover 
The several caskets to this noble prince. — 
Now make your choice. 

Morocco. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, 
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desired 
The second silver, which this promise carries, 
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves y 
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, 
"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.^^ 
How shall I know if I do choose the right? 

Portia. The one of them contains my picture, prince ; 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Morocco. Some God direct my judgment ! Let me see ; 
I will survey the inscriptions back again. 
What says this leaden casket? 

"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath^ 
Must give — for what ? For lead ? Hazard for lead ? 
This casket threatens. Men that hazard all 
Do it in hope of fair advantages : 
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; 
I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 

87 



What says the silver with her virgin hue ? 

^^Who chooseth me shall get as much as he desej-ves^ 

As much as he deserves? Pause there, Morocco, 

And weigh thy value with an even hand : 

If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, 

Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 

May not extend so far as to the lady : 

And yet to be afeard of my deserving 

Were but a weak disabhng of myself. 

As much as I deserve ? Why, that's the lady : 

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes. 

In graces, and in qualities of breeding ; 

But more than these, in love I do deserve. 

What if I strayed no further, but chose here? — 

Let's see once more this saying graved in gold ; 

*'lVho chooseth me shall gaifi what ??iany men desire.'''' 

Why, that's the lady : all the world desires her ; 

From the four corners of the earth they come. 

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint. 

One of these three contains her heavenly picture. 

Is't like^ that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation 

To think so base a thought ; it were too gross 

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 

Or shall I think in silver she's immured. 

Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? 

O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem 

Was set in worse than gold. — Deliver me the key ; 

Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 

On opening the casket, Morocco was shocked to find a 

skull, in whose empty eye was a scroll, which he found to 

read : — 

All that glisters is not gold ; 

Often have you heard that told : 
1 probable. 



Many a man his life hath sold, 
But my outside to behold ; 
Gilded tombs do worms infold. 
Had you been as wise as bold, 
Young in limbs, in judgment old, 
Your answer had not been inscrolled : 
Fare you well; your suit is cold. 

Filled with dismay, the disappointed man faltered out : — 

Cold indeed ; and labor lost : 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost ! 
Portia, adieu ! I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave ; thus losers part. 

Soon after Morocco's departure, a Spanish lord, the 
Prince of Arragon, arrived at Belmont. He was a very 
self-conceited man, and so sure of his own sagacity that 
he could not think it possible for him to choose wrongly. 
So he took the oath without any hesitation and then 
proceeded to make his choice. As he stood before the 
caskets, he mused : — 

I am enjoined by oath to observe three things : 

First, never to unfold to any one 

Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail 

Of the right casket, never in my life 

To woo a maid in way of marriage \ 

Lastly, if I do fail in fortune of my choice. 

Immediately to leave you and be gone. 

Portia. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Arragon. And so have I addressed me. Fortune now 
To my heart's hope ! — Gold, silver, and base lead. 

" IVho chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.^^ 

89 



You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. 
What says the golden chest ? ha ! let me see : — 
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desi?'ey 
What many men desire ! that many may be meant 
By the fool multitude, that choose by show, 
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach. 
I will not choose what many men desire. 
Because I will not jump^ with common spirits 
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 
" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he desefves : " 
And well said, too ; for who shall go about 
To cozen fortune and be honorable 
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
To wear an undeserved dignity. 
O, that estates, degrees, and offices 
■ Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! 
How many then should cover that stand bare ! 
How many be commanded that command ! 
Well, but to my choice : 

"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves^ 
I will assume desert. — Give me the key for this, 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

Instead of finding Portia's picture, as he expected, in 
the silver casket, the mortified Prince of Arragon was 
confronted with a portrait of an idiot holding a schedule. 
He exclaimed : — 

How much unhke art thou to Portia ! 

How much unhke my hopes and my deservings ! 

1 agree. 
90 



" Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves T 
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? 
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? 

Portia. To offend and judge are distinct offices, 
And of opposed natures. 

In the scroll he found these lines : — 

The fii'e seven times tried this : 
Seven ti??ies t^ded that judgment is, 
That did never choose amiss. 
So77te there be that shadows kiss ; 
Such have but a shadow'' s bliss. 
There be fools alive, I wis ^ 
Silvered o^er ; and so was this. 

Now thoroughly humiliated, Arragon took a hasty 
leave, telling Portia as he went : — 

Still more fool I shall appear 

By the time I linger here ; 

With one fool's head I came to woo. 

But I go away with two. — 

Sweet, adieu ! Til keep my oath, 

Patiently to bear my wroth. 

Portia's penetration was well shown in her remark to 
Nerissa, as the conceited prince departed : — 

Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 

O, these deliberate fools ! when they do choose. 

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 

Nerissa. The ancient saying is no heresy. 
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 

We are now prepared to admire the shrewdness of 
Portia's father in framing the oracular inscriptions, 

1 am certain. 
91 



which are interpreted by each suitor in accordance with 
his own feeHngs and his views concerning hfe. 

Nearly three months have elapsed since Bassanio, 
accompanied by his friend Gratiano, left Venice for 
Portia's country-seat of Belmont. On parting from 
Antonio, — 

Bassanio told him he would make some speed 

Of his return ; he answered, " Do not so : 

Slubber ^ not business for my sake, Bassanio, 

But stay the very riping of the time ; 

And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me. 

Let it not enter in your mind of love. 

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 

To courtship, and such fair ©stents of love 

As shall conveniently become you there." 

The weeks have sped rapidly. Absorbed in each 
other's society, the lovers have taken no account of 
time. Now, however, Bassanio is desirous of deciding 
his destiny by making choice of one of the caskets, 
while Portia's fear lest he shall choose the wrong one 
causes her to urge delay : — 

Portia. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two 
Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company : therefore forbear awhile. 
There's something tells me, but it is not love, 
I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quahty. 
But lest you should not understand me well, — 
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought, — 
I would detain you here some month or two, 

1 to do carelessly or imperfectly. 
92 



Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn ; 
So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
They have o'erlooked me and divided me ; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, 
And so all yours. 

I speak too long ; but 'tis to peize ^ the time, 
To eke it, and to draw it out in length. 
To stay you from election. 

Bassanio. Let me choose ; 

For as I am, I live upon the rack. 

Then ensued a sportive word-play which really covered 
deep anxiety on the part of both. At length, Portia 
told her impatient lover, — 

Away, then ! I am locked in one of them : 
If you do love me, you will find me out. 
Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. — 
Let music sound while he doth make his choice. 

So while Bassanio was pondering the inscriptions, he 
was also listening to this song : — 

Tell 7ne where is fa7icy bred. 
Or in the heart, or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished? 

Reply, reply. 
It is engendered in the eyeSy 
With gazing fed; and fancy dies 

1 delay. 

93 



In the cradle ivhei'e it lies. 

Let lis all ring fancy' s knell: 
ril begin it, Ding, dong, bell. 

Bassanio. So may the outward shows be least 
themseh'es ; 
The world is still deceived with ornament. 
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 
But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, 
Obscures the show of evil? In religion, 
What damned error, but some sober brow 
Will bless it, and approve it with a text, 
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 
There is no vice so simple but assumes 
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts : 
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, 
Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk? 
And these assume but valor's excrement 
To render them redoubted ! Look on beauty. 
And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight, 
Which therein works a miracle in nature. 
Making them lightest that wear most of it. 
Thus ornament is but the guil^d shore 
To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf 
Veiling an Indian beauty ; — in a word, 
The seeming truth which cunning times put on 
To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 
Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee ; 
Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 
'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre lead 
Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, 
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence ; 
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence ! 

94 



Upon opening the lead casket, Bassanio exclaimed : — 

What find I here ? 

Fair Portia's counterfeit ! Move these eyes? 

Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 

Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips, 

Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 

Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 

The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 

A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 

Faster than gnats in cobwebs ; but her eyes ! — 

How could he see to do them? having made one, 

Methinks it should have power to steal both his, 

And leave itself unfurnished. 

When Bassanio's rapture at last allowed a pause, he 
read the scroll which assured him that he had won the 

lady : — 

You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair, and choose as true ! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 
Be content and seek no new. 
If you be well pleased with this. 
And hold your forttme for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is, 
And claiin her with a loving kiss. 

Bassanio, like the true lover that he was, was not 
satisfied with the words of the scroll alone, but he 
besought Portia to confirm his happy choice. This she 
did in the gentle, modest way that was habitual with her. 
She told him : — 

You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am : though for myself alone 

95 



I would not be ambitious in my wish, 

To wish myself much better, yet for you 

I would be trebled twenty times myself, 

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more 

rich, 
That only to stand high in your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account : but the full sum of me 
Is an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised : 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all in that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself and what is mine to you and yours 
Is now converted : but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen o'er myself ; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same myself 
Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring ; 
Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
Let it presage the ruin of your love. 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 

Bassanio. Madam, you have bereft me of all 
words. 
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins : 
But when this ring 

Parts from this finger, then parts life from thence ; 
O, then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead ! 

Nerissa. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry, good joy ; good joy, my lord and lady ! 



96 



Bassanio and Portia had been so completely absorbed 
in themselves that they had had no eyes for others. So 
it was that they were astonished to learn that Gratiano 
had been wooing the maid, Nerissa, and that she had 
consented to become his wife, if Bassanio should choose 
the right casket. When, therefore, Gratiano wished all 
joy to the happy lovers, he asked Bassanio's permission 
to be married at the same time with himself and Portia. 
Bassanio replied, — 

With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. 

Gratiano. 1 thank your lordship, you have got me one. 
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours : 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid : 
You loved, I loved, for intermission 
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, 
And so did mine too, as the matter falls : 
For wooing here until I sweat again, 
And swearing till my very roof was dry 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 
I got a promise of this fair one here 
To have her love, provided that your fortune 
Achieved her mistress. 

Portia. Is this true, Nerissa? 

Nerissa. Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal. 

Bassanio. Our feast shall be much honored in your 
marriage. 

But now their joy is sadly darkened by the arrival 
of a messenger bringing a letter from Antonio, who 
writes : — 

Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors 
grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit ; 
H 97 



and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts 
are cleared betweeji you a7id I, if 1 7night see you at my death. 
Notwithstanding, use your pleasure ; if your love do not per- 
suade you to co7?ie, let not my letter. 

As Bassanio read the letter, Portia observed with 
alarm that he turned paler and paler. She begged him 
to tell her what it was that distressed him so. Then 
Bassanio told her, — 

O sweet Portia, 
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words 
That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, 
When I did first impart my love to you, 
I freely told you all the wealth I had 
Ran in my veins — I was a gentleman : 
And then I told you true ; and yet, dear lady, 
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
That I was worse than nothing ; for indeed 
I have engaged myself to a dear friend, 
Engaged my friend to his mere ^ enemy, 
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; 
The paper as the body of my friend. 
And every word in it a gaping wound, 
Issuing Hfe-blood. 

When Portia learns that the amount of Antonio's 
indebtedness to Shylock is only three thousand ducats, 
she tells Bassanio to pay the debt many times over, if 
need be, to satisfy Shylock's greed. She bids Bassanio 
return to Venice, asking him to delay only long enough 

1 absolute. 
98 



to have their marriage rites solemnized in the church at 
Belmont ; for, on no account, would she have such a 
friend as Antonio " lose a hair through Bassanio's 
fault." 

After Bassanio and Gratiano have gone, Portia decides 
to take Nerissa and follow them, for her quick wit has 
devised a plan by which her husband's friend may be 
saved. She leaves her house in charge of Lorenzo, 
another friend of Bassanio's, and Jessica, his wife. 
Jessica is the daughter of Shylock, but she has left her 
father and married a Christian. 

Portia despatches a servant to her kinsman. Doctor 
Bellario of Padua, a very learned judge of the law, with 
commands to meet her at the ferry leading to Venice, 
bringing with him such notes and garments as Doctor 
Bellario may give him. Then she says to Nerissa : — 

Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand 

That you yet know not of. We'll see our husbands 

Before they think of us. 

The Duke of Venice tried every means at his com- 
mand to soften Shylock's hard heart, and to prevent his 
insisting upon carrying out the provisions of his cruel 
bond. But all was in vain, and Antonio was brought 
before the high court of justice. His own sufferings 
had tempered his hatred, and he came to his trial sup- 
ported by a noble courage. In reply to the duke's 
expression of pity for him, Antonio answered : — 

I have heard * 

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 

99 
L.ofC. 



His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate 

And that no lawful means can carry me 

Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 

My patience to his fury, and am armed 

To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 

The very tyranny and rage of his. 

As Shylock came into court, the duke made one last 
appeal, saying : — • 

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. 

That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 

To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought 

Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse^ more strange 

Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 

And where thou now exact'st the penalty, 

Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, 

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture. 

But, touched with human gentleness and love, 

Forgive a moiety ^ of the principal ; 

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses. 

That have of late so huddled on his back, 

Enow ^ to press a royal merchant down ; 

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shylock. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger hght 
Upon your charter and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
Three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that; 
But say, it is my humor: is it answered? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat, 

1 pity. 2 portion. 3 enough. 

lOO 



x\nd I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 

To have it baned? What, are you answered yet? 

Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; 

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat. 

Now, for your answer : 

As there is no firm reason to be rendered, 

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig, 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat, 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not. 

More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing 

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 

A losing suit against him. Are you answered? 

Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

Bassanio. Do all men kill the tilings they do not love ? 

Shylock. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? 

Antonio. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : 
You may as well go stand upon the beach 
And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the wolf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops and to make no noise, 
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that — than which what's harder? — 
His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you. 
Make no more offers, use no further means. 
But with all brief and plain conveniency 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 

Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 

lOI 



I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none? 

Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him. 
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it? 

The duke now said that he would dismiss the court 
until another day, unless the learned Doctor Bellario, 
whom he had sent for to try the case, should arrive. 
Even while he was speaking, a messenger from Doctor 
Bellario came bringing a letter to the duke, which read 
as follows : — 

Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter 
I am very sick : but in the iftstant that your messenger came, 
in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome ; his 
name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause i7i con- 
troversy between the Jew and Antonio the inerchant ; we turned 
over many books together : he is fur7iished with ?ny opinioft, 
which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I 
cannot enough co?n7?iend, comes with him, at my iffiportunity, 
to fill up your gj'ace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let 
his lack of years be no ij?ipedi??ient to let hi??i lack a reverend 
estimation ; for I never hiew so young a body with so old a 
head. I leave him to your gracioiis acceptance, whose t?'ial 
shall better publish his coniniendation. 

The young doctor, as you have probably guessed, was 
none other than Portia, and her clerk was Nerissa. The 
duke was very willing to give the conduct of the case 

102 



into the hands of the new-comer, whom Bellario recom- 
mended so highly. Portia's first question was : — 

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Portia. Is your name Shylock ? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed — 
You stand within his danger, do you not? 

Antonio. Ay, so he says. 

Portia. Do you confess the bond ? 

Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 

Portia. The quahty of mercy is not strained, ^ 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blest; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty. 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
It is an attribute of God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy, 

1 constrained, forced. 
103 



And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea, 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

In vain did the young doctor plead with Shylock ; in 
vain did Bassanio offer him twice the amount of the debt; 
the revengeful creditor would have nothing but his bond. 

Bassanio begged the doctor to — 

Wrest once the law to your authority ; 
To do a great right, do a little wrong. 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Portia. It must not be. There is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established; 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent. 
And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state. It cannot be. 

Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
O wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 

Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law ; your exposition 
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 

104 



Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear, 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why then, thus it is : 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shylock. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 

Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shylock. 'Tis very true. O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

Portia. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shylock. Ay, his breast ; 

So says the bond — doth it not, noble judge ? — 
Nearest his heart ; those are the very words. 

Portia. It is so. 
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge. 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

Portia. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shylock. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 
We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shylock. Most rightful judge I 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from ofl" his breast; 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ! Come, 
prepare ! 

Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else. 

105 



This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 

The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : 

Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh : 

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 

Unto the state of Venice. 

Shylock. Is that the law? 

Portia. Thyself shall see the act ; 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more 
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple — nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, 
Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Realizing that, in his desire for revenge, he had over- 
reached himself, Shylock now said that he would accept 
Bassanio's offer so far as to take the principal — the 
three thousand ducats. But Portia would not allow 
that, since he had refused it in the open court ; he 
should have merely that which he had so rigorously in- 
sisted on, — "justice and his bond." And when he 
would have left the court room, Portia compelled him 
to stay while she proved to him that, by insisting upon 
taking the pound of flesh, he had laid himself hable to 
a severe penalty. She continued : — 

1 06 



Tarry, Jew ; 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 

It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 

If it be proved against an ahen, 

That by direct or indirect attempts 

He seek the life of any citizen, 

The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 

Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 

Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 

And the offender's life lies in the mercy 

Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 

In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; 

For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly, and directly too, 

Thou hast contrived against the very hfe 

Of the defendant, and thou hast incurred 

The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 

Down therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
You take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? 

Taught by his own suffering, Antonio was ready to 
show mercy to his enemy. He requested the duke to 
remit the fine of the half of Shylock's property which 
the state could legally claim, and asked that the other 
half might be entrusted to him for the use of Shylock's 

107 



daughter and her husband; also that Shy lock should be 
required to make a will bequeathing his entire estate to 
Jessica and Lorenzo. Finall}^, he demanded that Shy- 
lock should adopt the Christian faith. 

To all these conditions the broken-spirited Shylock 
assented, saying sadly, as he left the court, — 

I pray you, give me leave to go from hence j 
I aii:i not well. Send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 

The court adjourned amid general rejoicings at 
Antonio's happy escape. As the duke withdrew, he 
said to Antonio, — ■ 

Antonio, gratify this gentleman. 

For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 

Bassanio besought the young doctor to take as a fee 
the three thousand ducats due to Shylock, which Portia, 
of course, refused to accept, telling Antonio, — 

He is well paid that is well satisfied; 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied. 
And therein do account myself well paid. 

Then she said significantly to Bassanio, — 

I pray you, know me when we meet again : 
I \\'ish you well, and so I take my leave. 

But they urged her to take, at least, some slight 
remembrance as a token of their gratitude. She 
consented, therefore, to take Antonio's gloves, and 
Bassanio's ring — the very ring which she had given 

io8 



him with the solemn command that he should nevei 
part with it. 

In dismay, Bassanio replied : — 

This ring, good sir, — alas ! it is a trifle ; 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 

Portia. I will have nothing else but only this ; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 

Bassanio. There's more depends on this than on the 
value. 
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
And find it out by proclamation ; 
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 

Portia. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers ; 
You taught me first to beg, and now methinks 
You teach me how a beggar should be answered. 

Bassanio. Good sir, this ring was given me by my 
wife ; 
And when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. 

Portia. An if your wife be not a mad woman, 
And know how well I have deserved the ring, 
She would not hold out enemy forever. 
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you. 

So saying, Portia departed with Nerissa. At ' the 
urgent entreaty of Antonio, who feared that the young 
doctor would consider them ungrateful, Bassanio sent 
Gratiano after them with instructions to give the ring 
to the doctor. Nerissa took this opportunity of per- 
suading Gratiano to let her have the ring which she 
had given him. The two ladies now looked forward 
with merry anticipation to the surprise which they had 
in store for their husbands on their return. 

109 



The evening on which Portia and Nerissa reached 
Belmont again was one of surpassing beauty. Lorenzo 
and Jessica were awaiting them in the moonlighted 
grounds before the mansion. Lorenzo bade the musi- 
cians to play, and as they listened to the sweet melody, 
he said to Jessica : — 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls, 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

In a few moments Portia and Nerissa arrived. As 
they entered the avenue, Portia exclaimed : — 

That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far that little candle throws his beams ! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Lorenzo. That is the voice, 

Or I am much deceived, of Portia. 

Portia. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo. 
By the bad voice. 

Lorenzo. Dear lady, welcome home. 

Portia. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare, 
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
Are they returned ? 

no 



Lorenzo. Madam, they are not yet ; 
But there is come a messenger before, 
To signify their coming. 

Ere many minutes had passed, Bassanio arrived with 
Antonio and Gratiano. Portia graciously bade Antonio 
welcome, expressing great joy at his deliverance from 
the Jew's malice. 

Both the ladies, however, quickly discovered that the 
rings which they had given their husbands at parting 
were missing from their hands. At first, they pretended 
to be very angry, and accused Bassanio and Gratiano 
of being false to their promises ; but they allowed them- 
selves to be pacified when Antonio interposed, say- 
ing : — 

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. • 

Portia. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome notwith- 
standing. 

Bassanio. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee. 

Antonio. I once did lend my body for his wealth, 
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring. 
Had quite miscarried ; I dare be bound again, 
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
Will never more break faith advisedly. 

Portia. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, 
And bid him keep it better than the other. 

With this Portia handed Antonio the ring which Bas- 
sanio had given her. When Bassanio saw it, he ex- 
claimed in astonishment : — 



III 



By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor ! 

Portia. You are all amazed : 
Here is a letter ; read it at your leisure ; 
It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, 
Nerissa there her clerk; Lorenzo here 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, 
And even but now returned ; I have not yet 
Entered my house. — Antonio, you are welcome ; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ; 
There you shall find, three of your argosies 
Are richly come to harbor suddenly. 
You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. It is almost morning. 
And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 
Of these events at full. Let us go in ; 
And charge us there upon inter'gatories. 
And we will answer all things faithfully. 



112 



AS YOU LIKE IT 



AS YOU LIKE IT 

It happened one day in the old chivalric times that a 
famous wrestler came to the court of Duke Frederick of 
France, and offered to amuse the knights and ladies by 
feats of strength. So cruel were his blows that he over- 
threw three brothers who had accepted his challenge, 
and broke their ribs, thus entirely disabling them. 

Now there was a certain young man, Orlando by name, 
who, not daunted by these crushing defeats, offered to 
contend with the victorious wrestler, Charles. To the 
amazement of the entire court, the braggart Charles was 
quickly thrown down, while Orlando remained unhurt. 

In answer to the questions of the astonished duke, 
Orlando told him that he was the youngest son of Sir 
Rowland de Boys, a man whom the duke had, during his 
lifetime, regarded as an enemy ; so instead of rewarding 
Orlando for his skill, the duke turned away, displeased 
that his favorite wrestler should have been defeated by 
the son of one whom he hated, saying : — 

Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed, 
Hadst thou descended from another house. 
But fare thee well ; thou art a gallant youth : 
I would thou hadst told me of another father. 

115 



Among the lookers-on at the wresthng match were 
two fair maidens, — Celia, daughter of Duke Frederick, 
and Rosahnd, her cousin. Rosahnd's father was the 
rightful duke, but he had been ill-treated by Frederick 
and driven into banishment. Celia's love for her cousin 
was so strong that she had persuaded her father to per- 
mit Rosalind to remain at court as her companion. 

These two young girls were filled with admiration of 
Orlando's courage and skill in wrestling, and Rosalind, 
to show her esteem, gave him a chain that she had about 
her neck, saying : — 

Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. 
Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 

After this, Duke Frederick became more tyrannical 
than ever. He commanded Rosahnd to leave the court 
at once, threatening her with death, if, at the end of ten 
days, she should be found within twenty miles of his 
court, and giving as the only reason for his cruel order — 

Thou art thy father's daughter ; there's enough. 

The real reason for this harsh sentence was that 
Rosalind had endeared herself to the people, and the 
false duke feared that their pity for the wronged daugh- 
ter of the banished duke would cause them to rebel 
against his rule. So he would not relent, even though 
his own daughter, Celia, pleaded with him for permission 
to keep Rosalind with her, saying : — 

I cannot live out of her company. 
ii6 



Celia's love for Rosalind was so deep and true, how- 
ever, that she refused to be parted from her cousin, and 
herself suggested that they should go together to seek 
Rosalind's father, who, since his banishment, had been 
living in the neighboring forest of Arden. With him 
were some of his faithful friends among the nobles, who 
preferred to share his exile, rather than attend upon 
Duke Frederick, whom they hated. There they were 

said to — 

— live like the old Robin Hood of England : they 
say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the 
time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. 

Rosalind knowing that — 

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold, — 

was unwilling to risk travelling so far without some pro- 
tection, so she proposed to disguise herself as a young 
man. This she could easily do, because she was taller 
and stronger than her fair cousin. Rosalind put on, 
therefore, the clothing of a countryman, while Celia 
dressed like a country lass, that they might pass for 
brother and sister. They also persuaded Touchstone, 
the court jester, who was devotedly attached to Celia, 
to accompany them. These preparations made, Celia 

proposed : — 

Let's away, 
And get our jewels and our wealth together, 
Devise the fittest time and safest way 
To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
After my flight. Now go we in content 
To liberty and not to banishment. 
117 



Meanwhile, Orlando, after his unkind dismissal by 
the duke, had met with still greater unkindness from 
his elder brother, Oliver, who had hoped that Orlando 
would be worsted in the wrestling match. The secret 
of this unbrotherly feeling was a bad conscience. 

When their father. Sir Rowland de Boys, died, he en- 
trusted the care and education of his two younger sons 
to the eldest, Oliver. Oliver had obeyed his father's 
will in the case of the second son, but, for some unac- 
countable reason, he so disliked Orlando, the youngest, 
that he neglected to give him the education that was his 
due, and even shamefully mistreated him. 

At the time our story opens, Orlando had determined 
that he would endure this ill-treatment no longer. So 
when Oliver called him a villain, or base peasant, he 
seized his brother by the throat, and compelled him to 
listen to his demands. 

Orlando. My father charged you in his will to give me a 
good education : you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring 
and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of 
my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it : 
therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, 
or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament ; 
with that I will go buy my fortunes. 

Oliver. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? 
Well, sir, get you in : I will not long be troubled with you : you 
shall have some part of your will : I pray you, leave me. 

Orlando. I will no further offend you than becomes me for 
my good. 

When Oliver learned that his brother had defeated 
the duke's wrestler, his rage knew no bounds. His evil 

ii8 



purposes became known to an old family servant, named 
Adam, who was devoted to Orlando. Adam resolved to 
save Orlando from injury at the hands of his wicked 
brother, so he met the youth as he was returning to the 
house of Oliver, and thus entreated him : — 

O my sweet master ! 
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 
Come not within these doors ; within this roof 
The enemy of all your graces lives : 
Your brother — no, no brother ; yet the son — 
Yet not the son, I will not call him son 
Of him I was about to call his father — 
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means 
To burn the lodging where you use to lie 
And you within it : if he fail of that, 
He will have other means to cut you off. 
I overheard him and his practices. 
This is no place ; this house is but a butchery : 
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 

Orlando. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have 
me go? 

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 

Orlando. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg 
my food? 
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 
A thievish living on the common road? 
This I must do, or know not what to do ; 
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; 
I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, 
The thrifty hire I saved under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse 

119 



When service should m my old limbs lie lame 
And unregarded age in corners thrown : 
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
All this I give you. Let me be your servant : 
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty ; 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debihty ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ; 
I'll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. 

ORL-A.NDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 
When ser\'ice sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times. 
Where none will sweat but for promotion. 
And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having : it is not so with thee. 
But come thy ways ; we'll go along together, 
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent. 
We'll light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee. 
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 

After many days of wandering, Orlando and his aged 
servant, almost fainting from hunger, came to the forest 
of Arden, where, unknown to them, the banished duke 
and his faithful followers were keeping a kind of rustic 
state. The famished Orlando, coming unexpectedly 
upon the exiles as they were about to partake of their 

1 20 



noonday meal, drew his sword in his excitement, and 
would have compelled them to give him food. But the 
kind-hearted duke, reading his suffering in his wild 
manner, spoke gently to him, and made the distressed 
young man heartily welcome to his table. The grateful 
Orlando, however, refused to eat, himself, until he could 
bring his faithful old servant to share the much-needed 
food, saying, — 

There is an old poor man, 
Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limped in pure love : till he be first sufficed, 
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger, 
I will not touch a bit. 

Duke. Go find him out, 

And we will nothing waste till you return. 

Orlando. I thank ye ; and be blest for your good 
comfort ! 

The wronged duke had found life in the free wood- 
land so happy in contrast to the envy and ingratitude 
of the court, that he said to his companions : — 

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile. 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 

Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 

More free from peril than the envious court? 

Sweet are the uses of adversity. 

And this our life exempt from public haunt 

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

His feeling was shared by the other lords. One of 
their number put it into exquisite verse, singing his 
lines to the birds and trees. The song ran thus: — 

121 



Under the greenwood tree 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And turn his merry note 

Unto fie sweet bird's tlwoat, 
Come hither, come hither, cofne hither : 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 

And loves to live /' the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats 

And pleased with what he gets. 
Come hither, co?ne hither, co??ie hither : 

Here shall he see 

No enei7iy 
But winter and rough weather. 

When Orlando returned carrying the exhausted Adam, 
the duke bade him — 

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden 
And let him feed. 

Orlando. I thank you most for him. 

Adam. So had you need : 

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 

Duke. Welcome ! fall to : I will not trouble you 
As yet, to question you about your fortunes. 

Then turning to his followers, he said : — 

Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing. 

In response to this request, the same rhyming lord 
gave the following song which was suggested by the 
unkindness from which they had all suffered : — 

122 



Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art 7iot so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As be^iefits forgot : 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend 7'e7nembered 7iot. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! imio the green holly: 
Most frie7idship is feigning, Tnost loving Tnere folly ; 
Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! 

This life is 7tiost jolly. 

After their hunger had been satisfied, Orlando con- 
fided to the kind duke who he was, and what cruel 
treatment had forced him to leave his childhood's home. 
For the sake of his father, then, whom the duke had 
dearly loved, Orlando was made doubly welcome, and 
he soon became a favorite with these lords of the forest. 

In the meantime, Rosalind and Celia had found their 
way to this same forest of Arden, but they had not yet 
revealed themselves to Rosalind's father, the duke. 

Directly after their arrival, they chanced to meet a 
youthful shepherd, named Corin, of whom, in their hun- 
ger and weariness, they asked hospitality. Corin replied 
that, being in the employ of another, he could not him- 

123 



self give them entertainment, but that his master was 
desirous of selhng his flocks and his cottage. 

Rosalind at once commissioned Corin to purchase for 
her the shepherd's flock and simple home, at the same 
time offering him better wages if he would serve them 
as shepherd. We must remember that Rosalind still 
wore her disguise, and that she and Celia passed for 
brother and sister. Corin gladly accepted the liberal 
offer, telling Rosalind, — 

— if you like upon report 
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, 
I will your very faithful feeder be 
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. 

Here, therefore, in — 

a sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees, 

near the osier-Hned bank of a murmuring stream, these 
two high-born maidens took up their abode. 

Orlando, although entirely ignorant of the presence 
of his beloved Rosalind in this very forest of Arden, 
was so deeply in love that he was continually writing 
verses in her praise, and he went about fastening these 
love-poems upon the tree-trunks. In such fashion as 
this did he write : — 

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love : 

And thou, thriced-crowned queen of night survey 

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, 
Thy huntress' name that my full Hfe doth sway. 

O Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books 
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character ; 

That every tree which in this forest looks 

124 



Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere. 
Run, run, Orlando ; carve on every tree 
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. 

All this may seem very foolish, but — 

We that are lovers run into strange capers. 

It was not long until Rosalind herself happened upon 
one of these love-ditties, and she was greatly astonished 
to find her virtues published thus : — 

Fro 711 the east to western Ind, 

No Jewel is tike Rosalind. 

Her worth being mounted on the 7mnd, 

Through all the world bears Rosalind. 

All the pic tw-es fairest lined 

Are but black to Rosalind. 

Let no fair be kept in ?nind 

But the fair of Rosalind. 

Her cousin Celia not only found other effusions, but 
she discovered the writer of them, and teased Rosalind 
wittily about her poetical lover. Since Rosalind was as 
deeply in love as was Orlando, she soon contrived to 
meet him, and he, not recognizing her through her dis- 
guise, was easily led to talk of himself. Rosalind 
began : — 

There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our plants with 
carving " Rosahnd " on their barks ; hangs odes upon hawthorns 
and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of 
Rosalind : if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him 
some good counsel. 

Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of 
Rosalind, I am that he, that mifortunate he. 

125 



Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes 
speak ? 

Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. 

Rosalind. Love is merely a madness ; yet I profess curing 
it by counsel. 

Orlando. I would not be cured, youth. 

Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosa- 
lind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. 

Thus did Rosalind cunningly manage to lead the 
unsuspecting Orlando to woo her in her own name, for 
he was delighted to accede to her request. She, on her 
part, confessed to her cousin Celia, — - 

My pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom 
deep I am in love ! But it cannot be sounded. 

One day Orlando, who had promised to attend the 
duke at dinner, on parting from Rosalind, told her that 
he would return in two hours. She jestingly retorted 
that, if he should be one minute behind the promised 
hour, she should lose all faith in his word, saying : — 

If you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute 
behind your hour, I will think you most unworthy of her you 
call Rosalind. 

The two hours passed, but Orlando did not appear. 
After a long waiting, another man was seen approach- 
ing. As he came near he thus addressed them : — 

Good morrow, fair ones : pray you, if you know, 
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands 
A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees? 
126 



Celia. West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom : 
The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream 
Left on your right hand brings you to the place. 
But at this hour the house doth keep itself; 
There's none within. 

The new-comer resumed : — 

If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 

Then should I know you by description ; 

Such garments and such years : '' The boy is fair, 

Of female favor,^ and bestows himself 

Like a ripe sister : the woman low 

And browner than her brother." Are not you 

The owner of the house I did inquire for? 

Celia. It is no boast, being asked, to say we are. 

The stranger continued : — 

Orlando doth commend him to you both. 
And to that youth he calls his Rosahnd 
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he? 

Rosalind. I am : what must we understand by this ? 

In a few words he made them acquainted with what 
had happened to detain Orlando, and revealed the fact 
that he was Oliver, the brother who had used Orlando 
so wickedly : — 

Oliver. When last the young Orlando parted from you, 
He left a promise to return again 
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest. 
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, 
Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside, 
And mark what object did present itself: 

1 countenance. 
127 



Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age 

And high top bald with dry antiquity, 

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, 

Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck 

A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, 

Who with her head nimble in threats approached 

The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly, 

Seeing Orlando, it unhnked itself, 

And with indented ghdes did slip away 

Into a bush : under which bush's shade 

A lioness with udders all drawn dry, 

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, 

When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 'tis 

The royal disposition of that beast 

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead : 

This seen, Orlando did approach the man 

And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 

Celia. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother ; 
And he did render him the most unnatural 
That liv6d amongst men. 

Oliver. And well he might so do, 

For well I know he was unnatural. 

Rosalind. But to Orlando : did he leave him there. 
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness? 

Oliver. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so ; 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 
Made him give battle to the lioness, 
Who quickly fell before him : in which hurtling 
From miserable slumber I awaked. 

Celia. Are you his brother? 

Rosalind. Was't you he rescued ? 

Celia. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? 

Oliver. 'Twas I ; but 'tis not I : I do not shame 

128 



To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Oliver, now thoroughly repentant, and ashamed of 
his former ill-treatment of his brother, further re- 
lated : — 

When from the first to last betwixt us two 

Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, 

As how I came into that desert place : — 

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, 

Committing me unto my brother's love ; 

Who led me instantly unto his cave, 

There stripped himself, and here upon his arm 

The lioness had torn some flesh away, 

Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted 

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosahnd. 

Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound ; 

And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 

He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 

To tell this story, that you might excuse 

His broken promise, and to give this napkin 

Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth 

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 

Upon hearing this, and seeing the blood-stained nap- 
kin, Rosalind swooned. By so doing, she almost be- 
trayed herself, but she quickly recovered, and insisted 
that Oliver should return immediately to his wounded 
brother. 

All the time that Oliver had been telling his story, 
he had been looking with admiring eyes upon the gentle 
Celia, and very soon thereafter, he found an opportunity 
K 129 



of confessing his love to her, and was made happy by 
receiving a confession of love in return. Rosalind said 
afterward, in speaking of it to Orlando : — 

There was never anything so sudden : for your brother and 
my sister no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but 
they loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed 
but they asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the 
reason but they sought the remedy : and in these degrees have 
they made a pair of stairs to marriage which they will climb ; 
clubs cannot part them. 

So it was arranged that Oliver and Celia should be 
married in the presence of the duke and his rustic court. 
The sight of their happiness gave a fresh pang to the 
heart of Orlando. He said to Rosalind : — 

O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
another man's eyes ! By so much the more shall I to-morrow 
be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think 
my brother happy in having what he wishes for. 

Rosalind then told him for his comfort that, ever since 
her childhood, she had known many secrets of the magic 
art, she having been taught by an uncle who was a great 
magician ; and that this art would enable her to produce 
the real Rosalind, whom he might marry, if he would, 
at the same time that his brother should be wedded to 
Celia. She also won a promise from her father, the 
duke, that, if she should bring his daughter to him, he 
would give her in marriage to Orlando. 

The rest is quickly told. On the following day, Rosa- 
lind appeared in her own maidenly apparel, thus glad- 
dening the hearts of her father and her lover. Her 

130 



knowledge of magic had enabled her to bring to the 
wedding Hymen, the goddess of marriage. Hymen, 
who rejoices in bringing loving hearts together, sang 
this marriage hymn : — 

Then there is mirth in heaven. 
When earthly things 77iade even 

Atone together. 
Good duke, receive thy daughter : 
Hyjnenfrom heaven brought her, 

Yea, brought her hither. 
That thou mightst join her hand zvith his 
Whose heart within her boso77i is. 
Whites a wedlock hy7nn we sing, 
Feed yourselves with questioning ; 
That reasoji wo7ider may di77iinish, 
How thus we 77iet, a7id these things fi7iish. 

To complete their content, a messenger from the court, 
who was none other than the brother of Oliver and 
Orlando, arrived soon after the wedding, bringing word 
that Duke Frederick had repented of his evil ways. In 
token of the sincerity of his repentance he was ready 
to restore the crown to the rightful duke, Rosalind's 
father, and their lands to the lords who had followed 
the duke into exile. This news brought great joy to 
those in the forest. The duke voiced the happiness 
of all in saying : — 

Welcome, young man ; 
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding, 
To one his lands withheld, and to the other 
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 
First, in this forest let us do those ends 
131 



That here were well begun and well begot : 

And after, every of this happy number 

That have endured shrewd^ days and nights with us 

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 

According to the measure of their states. 

Meantime, forget this new-fallen dignity 

And fall into our rustic revelry. 

Play, music. And you, brides and bridegrooms all, 

With measure heaped in joy, to the measures fall. 

1 hard, bitter. 



132 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 

Baptista, a wealthy gentleman of Padua, had two 
daughters, for whom he desired to find husbands. The 
younger daughter, Bianca, was a gentle, yieldmg crea- 
ture, and her father's favorite. Katherina, the elder, 
was a high-spirited girl, whose nature had been soured 
by her father's outspoken preference for her sister. 
The mother being dead, there was no one to teach 
Katherina to curb her ill temper, and she had grown to 
be so violent in word and deed that she was known in 
Padua as the " shrew," or scold. 

Bianca had many suitors, but the marriageable men 
were all afraid of the shrew. Baptista, however, de- 
clared that Bianca should not marry until a husband 
were found for Katherina. He told the suitors in the 
presence of both daughters : — 

Gentlemen, importune me no farther. 
For how I firmly am resolved you know ; 
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter 
Before I have a husband for the elder. 
If either of you both love Katherina, 
Because I know you well, and love you well. 
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. 

135 



When one of them replied : — 

To cart her rather : she's too rough for me : — 

is it any wonder that Katherina's brow mantled with 
shame and anger, or that she asked her father indig- 
nantly if he wished to make her an object of public 
scorn ? 

Now it happened that, just at this time, Petruchio, 
a young gentleman of Verona, who had recently come 
into his fortune, arrived in Padua. One of the suitors 
for the hand of Bianca was an acquaintance of Petru- 
chio's. On meeting Petruchio, this young man, named 

Hortensio, inquired : — 

What happy gale 
Blows you to Padua here, from old Verona? 
PETRUcmo. Such wind as scatters young men 
through the world, 
To seek their fortunes farther than at home. 
Where small experience grows. But, in a few, 
Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me : — 
Antonio, my father, is deceased ; 
And I have thrust myself into this maze. 
Haply to wive and thrive as best I may : 
Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, 
And so am come abroad to see the world. 

Hortensio at once bethought him that, if he could 
persuade Petruchio to marry Katherina, he might have 
some prospect of winning Bianca. So he asked : — 

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee, 
And wish thee to a shrewd^ ill-favored wife? 

1 sharp-tempered. 
136 



Thou'dst thank me but a little for my counsel : 
And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich, 
And very rich : — but thou'rt too much my friend, 
And I'll not wish thee to her. 

Petruchio. Signior Hortensio, 'tvvixt such friends as we 
Few words suffice : and, therefore, if thou know 
One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife, 
I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; 
If wealthily, then happily in Padua. 

HoRTENSio. Petruchio, since we are stepped thus far in, 
I will continue that I broached in jest. 
I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife 
With wealth enough, and young, and beauteous ; 
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman : 
Her only fault (and that is faults enough) 
Is, — that she is intolerable curst,^ 
And shrewd, and froward, so beyond all measure. 
That, were my state far worser than it is, 
I would not wed her for a mine of gold. 
Her father is Baptista Minola, 
An affable and courteous gentleman ; 
Her name is Katherina Minola, 
Renowned in Padua for her scolding tongue. 

Petruchio. I know her father, though I know not her ; 
And he knew my deceased father well : 
I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her. 

It might seem from Petruchio's talk that he would 
be chiefly influenced by wealth in the choice of a wife, 
but in Europe, it is customary for men of rank and 
position to expect a woman to have enough money to 
support a style of living corresponding to that of her 

1 malicious, shrewish. 



husband. Petruchio was fond of adventure, and a little 
opposition pleased him; so he rather liked the thought 
of showing himself the superior of other men, by being 
able to tame the proud spirit of the beautiful Katherina. 
He repaired, therefore, quickly to the house of Baptista, 
and inquired of that gentleman : ■ — 

Pray, have you not a daughter 
Called Katherina, fair and virtuous ? 

'Baptista. I have a daughter, sir, called Katherina. 

Petruchio. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, 
Tliat, hearing of her beauty, and her wit. 
Her affability, and bashful modesty, 
Her wondrous qualities, and mild behavior, 
Am bold to show myself a forward guest 
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness 
Of that report which I so oft have heard. 

Baptista. You're welcome, sir ; 
But for my daughter Katherine, this I know. 
She is not for your turn, the more my grief. 

Petruchio. I see you do not mean to part with her ; 
Or else you like not of my company. 

Baptista. Whence are you, sir ? what may I call your 
name ? 

Petruchio. Petruchio is my name ; Antonio's son, 
A man well known throughout all Italy. 

Baptista. I know him well : you are welcome for his 
sake. 

Petruchio. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, 
And every day I cannot come to woo. 
You knew my father well ; and in him, me, 
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods. 
Which I have bettered rather than decreased. 

138 



Then tell me, — if I get your daughter's love, 
What dowry shall I have with her to wife? 

Baptista. After my death the one half of my lands : 
And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns. 

Petruchio. And, for that dowry, I'll assure her of 
Her widowhood, — be it that she survive me, — 
In all my lands and leases whatsoever : 
Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, 
That covenants may be kept on either hand. 

Baptista did not know what to think of this hasty 
young wooer, and he warned Petruchio that, before 
arranging for marriage settlements, he must get Kathe- 
rina's consent. Petruchio assured him that he made no 
doubt of winning the lady's favor. He insisted : — 

Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, father, 
I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; 
And where two raging fires meet together. 
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury. 
Though little fire grows great with little wind. 
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all : 
So I to her, and so she yields to me ; 
For I am rough, and woo not like a babe. 

These words of Petruchio's give us an idea what plan 
he intends to pursue with Katherina : that he proposes 
to disarm her ill nature by meeting her outbursts of 
temper with words and actions as ugly as her own. 

While awaiting her coming — for Baptista had agreed 
to send her to him — he pondered : — 

I'll woo her with some spirit when she comes. 
Say that she rail ; why, then I'll tell her plain 

139 



She sings as sweetly as a nightingale : 

Say that she frown ; I'll say, she looks as clear 

As morning roses newly washed with dew : 

Say she be mute, and will not speak a word ; 

Then I'll commend her volubility, 

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence : 

If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks 

As though she bid me stay by her a week ; 

If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day 

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married : — 

But here she comes : — 

Good morrow, Kate ; for that's your name, I hear. 

Katherina. Well have you heard, but something 
hard of hearing ; 
They call me Katherine, that do talk of me. 

Petruchio. You lie, in faith ; for you are called 
plain Kate, 
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst ; 
But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, 
Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 
For dainties are all cates ; and therefore, Kate, 
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; — 
Hearing thy mildness praised in every town. 
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, 
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs. 
Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. 

Katherina was sharp enough to see that Petruchio was 
really admiring her beauty ; but that, at the same time, 
he was expecting her to show the ill temper of which 
he had evidently heard. This put her on her mettle, 
and she replied in the same tone. In the word-play that 
followed, she proved herself a match for the merry Pe- 
truchio in witty retort. Finally, Petruchio told her : — 

140 



I find you passing gentle. 
'Twas told me, you were rough, and coy, and sullen, 
And now I find report a very liar ; 
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous. 
But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. 
Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, 
Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will ; 
Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ; 
But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers, 
With gentle conference, soft and affable. 
Your father hath consented 

That you shall be my wife ; your dowry 'greed on, 
And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. 
Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn ; 
For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, 
Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well. 
Thou must be married to no man but me; 
For I am he am born to tame you, Kate ; 
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate 
Conformable, as other household Kates. 
Here comes your father ; never make denial, 
I must and will have Katherine to my wife. 



At sight of her father with some of her sister's 
suitors, all Katherina's ill-nature returned. When Pe- 
truchio assured them that he and Katherina had agreed 
so v^ell that they were to be married upon the following 
Sunday, Kate made a sharp answer, saying that she 
would see Petruchio hanged rather than marry him then. 

But this made no difference to the determined Pe- 
truchio, who said, — 

'Tis bargained 'twixt us twain, being alone. 
That she shall still be curst in company. 

141 



I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe 
How much she loves me : O, the kindest Kate ! 
She hung about my neck ; and kiss on kiss 
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, 
That in a twink she won me to her love. 
Give me thy hand, Kate : I will unto Venice, 
To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding day : 
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests ; 
I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine. 

Baptista. I know not what to say : but give me your 
hands ; 
God send you joy, Petruchio ! 'tis a match. 

Petruchio. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu ! 
I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace : 
We will have rings, and things, and fine array ; 
And kiss me, Kate ; we will be married o' Sunday. 

Sunday came, the wedding feast was prepared, and 
the bridal party were ready to proceed to the church 
where the marriage ceremony was to be performed. 
But the bridegroom came not. We cannot blame poor 
Katherina for feeling keenly the shame of this seeming 
want of faith on the part of the man who had wooed 
her so impetuously. She could not restrain her tears, 
and angrily reproached her father, saying : — 

I must, forsooth, be forced 
To give my hand, opposed against my heart, 
Unto a mad-brain rudesby,^ full of spleen. 
Who wooed in haste, and "means to wed at leisure. 
I told you, I, he was a frantic fool. 
Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behavior : 

1 a turbulent fellow. 
142 



And, to be noted for a merry man, 
He'll woo a thousand, 'point the da)^ of marriage, 
Make friends, invite, yes, and proclaim the banns ; 
Yet never means to wed where he hath wooed. 
Now must the world point at poor Katherine, 
And say, — " Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife, 
If it would please him come and marry her." 

Thereupon, one of the company who knew Petruchio, 
spoke a good word for the tardy bridegroom, urging : — 

Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too ; 
Upon my life, Petruchio means but well. 
Whatever fortune stays him from his word : 
Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ; 
Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest. 

Katherina. Would Katherine had never seen him, 
though ! 

Baptista. Go, girl ; I cannot blame thee now to weep ;' 
For such an injury would vex a saint, 
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humor. 

Just as the wedding guests were about to disperse, 
word was brought that the bridegroom was approaching, 
but that, instead of wearing wedding garments, he was 
dressed in the most outlandish fashion imaginable — 

in a new hat and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches, thrice 
turned; a pair of old boots that have been candle-cases, one 
buckled, another laced ; an old rusty sword with a broken hilt : 
his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle, and stirrups of no 
kindred : and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of 
sheep's leather, which hath been often burst, and now repaired 
with knots : besides, being possessed with the glanders, swayed 
in the back, and altogether, a worn-out creature. 

143 



Baptista, although scandalized by the ridiculous ap- 
pearance of his would-be son-in-law, was glad to find 
that he still intended to marry Katherina, as his greeting 
proved : — 

Petruchio. Where is Kate? where is my lovely bride? 
How does mv father? — Gentles, methinks vou frown : 
And wherefore gaze this goodly company? 
As if they saw some wondrous monument. 
Some comet, or unusual prodigy? 

Baptista. Why, sir, you know, this is your wedding- 
day : 
First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; 
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. 
Fie I doff this habit, shame to your estate, 
An eye-sore to our solemn festival. 

Petruchio turned a deaf ear to all appeals that he 
would not go to the church dressed as he then was; he 
declared in reply to Baptista' s wish that he would not 
thus marry his daughter: — 

Good sooth, even thus ; therefore ha' done with words ; 
To me she's married, not unto my clothes. 

At the marriage service, Petruchio's behavior was as 
irreverent as were his clothes. To judge by his actions 
he was far more shrewish than Katherina had ever 
been. The trembling bride shook with fear at his mad 

words and acts ; for — 

When the priest 
Should ask — if Katherine should be his wife, 
"Ay, by gogs-wouns," quoth he ; and swore so loud 
That, all amazed, the priest let fall the book : 

144 



And, as he stooped again to take it up, 

The mad-brained bridegroom took him such a cuif, 

That down fell priest and book, and book and priest. 

But after many ceremonies done. 

He calls for wine. — "A health," quoth he, as if 

He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 

After a storm. — Quaffed off the muscadel, 

And threw the sops all in the sexton's face. 

This done, he took the bride about the neck. 

And kissed her Hps with such a clamorous smack, 

That, at the parting, all the church did echo. 

Such a mad marriage never was before. 

As they came from the church, Petruchio still further 
astonished every one by announcing that his business 
required such haste that he could not partake of the 
wedding feast that had been provided, but must leave 
immediately. 

PETRUcmo. I must away to-day before night come : 
Make it no wonder ; if you knew my business, 
You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
And, honest company, I thank you all, 
That have beheld me give away myself 
To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. 
Dine with my father, drink a health to me ; 
For I must hence, and farewell to you all. 

The secret reason of all Petruchio's strange conduct 
began to appear when he persisted in going in spite of 
Katherina's entreaties, and not only that, but in exercis- 
ing his right as a husband to compel her to go with 
him. Katherina attempted to assert her own will 
against that of her husband, saying : — 
L 145 



Nay, then, 
Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; 
No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. 
The door is open, sir, there lies your way. 
You may be jogging whiles your boots are green ; 
For me, I'll not be gone, till I please myself: 
'Tis like, you'll prove a jolly surly groom, 
That take it on you at the first so roundly. 

Petruchio. O Kate, content thee ; prithee be not 
angry. 

Katherena. I will be angry. What hast thou to do? 
Father, be quiet : he shall stay my leisure. 
Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner : 
I see a woman may be made a fool, 
If she had not a spirit to resist. 

Petruchio. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy 
command. 
Obey the bride, you that attend on her : 
Go to the feast, revel and domineer, 
Be mad and merry, — 
But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; 
I will be master of what is mine own. — 
And here she stands, touch her whoever dare ; 
I'll bring mine action on the proudest he 
That stops my way in Padua. 

Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, Kate ; 
I'll buckler thee against a million. 

And thus, with a strange mingling of tenderness and 
harsh rudeness did Petruchio so bewilder poor Kate 
that she began to hate scolding and ill-temper just as 
Petruchio intended that she should ; for his cure for the 
shrewishness of his pretty wife was to show her how 

146 



hateful was such ill-nature as she had been in the habit 
of indulging. 

On their ride home, Petruchio kept up the show of 
fitful caprice and unreasonableness, mounting Katherina 
upon a horse as worn-out as the one he rode ; cursing 
the horse because it stumbled in a miry place ; and beat- 
ing the serving boy because of the fall, until Katherina 
begged him to desist. For the fretful girl, who, until 
then, had never felt any unselfish sympathy, now 
learned to feel for those who were unjustly blamed. 

On arriving at their country home, they found every- 
thing in readiness for their reception, but nothing 
pleased the cross master. When dinner was served, he 
refused to eat or to permit the hungry Katherina to 
taste the food, declaring that everything was burnt, and 
pretending to be afraid to eat over-done food lest it 
should make them both more ill-tempered than ever. 
He told his tearful bride that, on the morrow, all should 
be set right, but that, for that night, they would fast 
together. It might seem that Petruchio went to un- 
necessary extremes in his taming process, but he was 
resolved to accomplish a speedy and permanent cure. 
He said to himself : — 

Thus have I politicly begun my reign, 
And 'tis my hope to end successfully. 
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; 
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not ; 
As with the meat, some undeserved fault 
I'll find about the making of the bed ; 
And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster, 

147 



This way the coverlet, another way the sheets : — 

Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend 

That all is done in reverend care of her ; 

And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night : 

And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail and brawl, 

And with the clamor keep her still awake. 

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ; 

And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor : 

He that knows better how to tame a shrew, 

Now let him speak. 

By Petruchio's method of treatment, Katherina was 
soon humbled to that degree that she secretly begged 
her husband's most trusted servant, Grumio, to manage 
to get her something to eat without Petruchio's knowl- 
edge. 

Grumio. No, no ; forsooth, I dare not, for my Hfe. 

Katherina. The more my wrong, the more his spite 
appears : 
What, did he marry me to famish me ? 
Beggars that come unto my father's door, 
Upon entreaty, have a present alms ; 
But I, who never knew how to entreat, 
Nor never needed that I should entreat, 
Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep ; 
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed : 
And that which spites me more than all these wants. 
He does it under name of perfect love ; 
As who should say, if I should sleep, or eat, 
'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. 
I prithee go and get me some repast ; 
I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 

Grumio. What say you to a neat's foot? 

148 



Katherina. 'Tis passing good ; I prithee let me have it. 

But Grumio was a waggish fellow and, besides, he 
desired to aid his master in carrying out his plan, so he 
replied : — 

I fear it is too choleric ^ a meat : 

How say you to a fat tripe, finely broiled? 

Katherina. I like it well ; good Grumio, fetch it me. 

Grumio. I cannot tell ; I fear, 'tis choleric. 
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? 

Katherina. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 

Grumio. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a httle. 

Katherina. Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest. 

Grumio. Nay, then, I will not ; you shall have the mustard, 
Or else you get no beef of Grumio. 

Katherina. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. 

Grumio. Why then, the mustard without the beef. 

Katherina's patience was now entirely exhausted, but 
just then Petruchio entered bringing a dish of meat, 
which he said he had prepared for her himself. He set 
the dish on the table, saying : — 

Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me. 
Here, love ; thou see'st how diligent I am. 
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee : 
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. 
What, not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not; 
And all my pains is sorted to no proof. — 
Here, take away this dish. 

Katherina. I pray you, let it stand. 

Petruchio. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; 

1 causing irritation. 
149 



And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. 

Katherina. I thank you, sir. 

Petruchio. Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! 
Kate, eat apace. — And now, my honey love, 
Will we return unto thy father's house ; 
And revel it as bravely as the best, 
With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings, 
With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things ; 
With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery ; ^ 
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. 
What, hast thou dined? The tailor stays thy leisure, 
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 

Without Katherina's knowledge, Petruchio had given 
orders for the making of some fashionable garments 
for his bride. When they were brought, Katherina 
was well pleased with their style, but Petruchio, to 
carry out his plan of subduing the shrewish girl by 
imitating her usual habit of fault-finding, would have 
none of them. When the merchant said that he had 
brought the cap that was ordered, Petruchio objected : — 

Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; 
Why, 'tis a cockle, or a walnut-shell, 
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; 
Away with it ! come, let me have a bigger. 

Katherina. Pll have no bigger ; this doth fit the time, 
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. 

Petruchio. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, 
And not till then. 

Kj^therina. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak; 
And speak I will. I am no child, no babe : 

1 gaudy apparel. 
ISO 



Your betters have endured me say my mind; 
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart ; 
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break ; 
And rather than it shall, I will be free 
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 

Petruchio. Why, thou sayest true ; it is a paltry cap, 
A custard-cofifiin,^ a bauble, a silken pie : 
I love thee well, in that thou Hk'st it not. 

Katherina. Love, or love me not, I like the cap : 
And it I will have, or I will have none. 

Petruchio pretended not to hear these words, but at 
once began to ask the tailor to show the gown that he 
had brought. He found even more fault with the gown 
than with the cap, asking : — 

What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-cannon : 
What ! up and down, carved like an apple tart? 
Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash. 
Like to a censer in a barber's shop : 
Why, what, i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this? 

Tailor. You bid me make it orderly and well, 
According to the fashion and the time. 

Petruchio. Marry, and did ; but if you be remembered, 
I did not bid you mar it to the time. 
Go, hop me over every kennel home, 
For you shall hop without my custom, sir : 
I'll none of it ; hence ! make your best of it. 

Katherina. I never saw a better-fashioned gown. 
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable : 
Belike, you mean to make a puppet of me. 

1 the raised crust of a pie was called a coffin. 
15^ 



Petruchio pretended to understand her to say that the 
tailor intended to make a puppet of her, and when the 
puzzled tailor attempted to explain that Katherina's 
words referred to him, Petruchio burst out in such a 
torrent of abuse that the poor workman was fain to 
defend himself, but to no purpose. Petruchio roared : — 

monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread, 
Thou thimble, 

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail ! 
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou ! 
Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread ! 
Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant; 
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. 
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st ! 

1 tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown. 

Having given Kate her lesson in the ugliness of un- 
reasonable scolding, Petruchio sent the tailor away, but 
not without telling him privately that the work should 
be paid for. That done, Petruchio addressed his wife in 
the most pleasant tone, saying : — 

Well, come, my Kate ; we will unto your father's, 
Even in these honest mean habiliments. 
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor, 
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds. 
So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 
What, is the jay more precious than the lark, 
Because his feathers are more beautiful? 
Or is the adder better than the eel. 
Because his painted skin contents the eye? 
O, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse 

152 



For this poor furniture and mean array. 
If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me : 
And therefore froHc ; we will hence forthwith, 
To feast and sport us at thy father's house. 
Let's see ; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock, 
And well we may come there by dinner-time. 

Katherina. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two, 
And 'twill be supper-time ere you come there. 

Petruchio. It shall be seven, ere I go to horse : 
Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do. 
You are still crossing it. — Sirs, let't alone : 
I will not go to-day ; and, ere I do. 
It shall be what o'clock I say it is. 

Petruchio thought rightly that to be as perverse as 
Katherina had heretofore been was the best way to 
overcome her peevish manners. When it suited him to 
start for her father's, they went, and not a moment ear- 
lier. On the way he exclaimed, although it was broad 
daylight : — 

How bright and goodly shines the moon ! 

Katherina. The moon ! the sun ; it is not moonlight 
now. 

PETRUcmo. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. 

Katherixa. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 

PETRUCfflO. Now, by my mother's son, and that's myself, 
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list. 
Or ere I journey to your father's house : 
Go on, and fetch our horses back again. — 
Evermore crossed and crossed : nothing but crossed ! 

Katherina. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, 
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please : 
And if you please to call it a rush candle, 

153 



Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. 

Petruchio. I say it is the moon. 

Katherina. I know it is the moon. 

Petruchio. Nay, then you lie ; it is the blessed sun. 

Katherina. Then, God be blessed, it is the blessed sun : 
But sun it is not, when you say it is not ; 
And the moon changes, even as your mind. 
What you will have it named, even that it is ; 
And so it shall be so, for Katherine. 



'J 



Ridiculous as this contention seems, it was no more 
senseless than many of Katherina's actions had formerly 
been ; and Katherina was quick-witted enough to recog- 
nize her own image in this mirror of her own girlish 
perversity, which her husband thus held up to her gaze. 
Petruchio felt that he had won, but in order to test 
Katherina's professions, he made one more merry test 
of her sincerity. They met an old gentleman on the 
road, whereupon Petruchio remarked : — 

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too. 
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? 
Such war of white and red within her cheeks? 
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, 
As those two eyes become that heavenly face? 
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee : 
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. 

This time Katherina fell in with Petruchio's mood and 
said : — 

Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet, 
Whither away ? or where is thy abode ? 
Happy the parents of so fair a child ! 

154 



Petruchio. Why, how now, Kate ? I hope thou art not 
mad. 
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, withered, 
And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. 

Katherina. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, 
That have been so bedazzled with the sun, 
That everything I look on seemeth green : 
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; 
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. 

'' Tamed ! " thought Petruchio ; " I need vex her no more." 

When Petruchio and Katherina arrived in Padua, they 
found a surprise awaiting them, and not them alone, but 
Father Baptista as well. For while Baptista was con- 
sidering which one of the suitors for the hand of his 
younger daughter he should bestow her upon, Bianca 
had chosen for herself, and had been married to a youth 
named Lucentio, without her father's knowledge. 

Baptista was easily reconciled, however, since Lucen- 
tio came of a wealthy family. Katherina and Petruchio 
joined the others at the wedding feast of Bianca and 
Lucentio. Hortensio, one of Bianca's discarded suitors, 
who had quickly solaced himself by marrying a rich 
widow, was there also with his new wife. After the 
supper, when the ladies had withdrawn, the other gen- 
tlemen began to banter Petruchio concerning his scold- 
ing wife, Baptista saying : — 

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 

Petruchio retorted : — 

155 



Well, I say — no : and, therefore, for assurance, 

Let's each one send unto his wife ; 

And he whose wife is most obedient 

To come at first when he doth send for her. 

Shall win the wager which we will propose. 

Lucentio began the game, sending word to Bianca 
that he desired her presence. To the amazement of all, 
she who had the reputation of being always yielding and 
gentle, returned answer that she was busy and could not 
come. When Hortensio's wife was summoned, she bade 
the servant say that she would not come, but that she 
commanded her husband to come to her. Now it was 
Petruchio's turn. He told his servant: — 

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress ; 
Say, I command her come to me. 

HoRTENSio. I know her answer. — She will not. 

The other men could hardly believe their eyes when 
they saw Katherina coming quietly in, and heard her 
say : — 

What is your will, sir, that you send for me? 

Lucentio. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. 

HoRTENSio. And so it is ; I wonder what it bodes. 

Petruchio. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life. 
And awful rule, and right supremacy ; 
And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy? 

Baptista congratulated Petruchio on the change by 
which the shrew had been transformed into a good-tem- 
pered woman, and offered to increase Katherina's dowry 
by twenty thousand crowns. At the request of Petru- 

156 



chio, Katherina, who was now proud of her husband, 
gave her opinion of wifely duty. She began by reprov- 
ing the wife of Hortensio for her sour looks, saying : — 

Unknit that threatening unkind brow, 

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : 

It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads ; 

A woman moved is hke a fountain troubled. 

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty. 

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 

Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee, 

And for thy maintenance commits his body 

To painful labor, both by sea and land. 

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold. 

While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ; 

And craves no other tribute at thy hands, 

But love, fair looks, and true obedience, — 

Too little payment for so great a debt. 

Such duty as the subject owes the prince. 

Even such a woman oweth to her husband : 

And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 

And not obedient to his honest will, 

What is she but a foul contending rebel, 

And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? 

I am ashamed that women are so simple 

To offer war, where they should kneel for peace : 

Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, 

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 

Hortensio's comment was : — 

Now go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrew ; — 

and Katherina and Petruchio lived happy ever after. 



^57 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 

In olden times there was great enmity between the 
Mediterranean cities of Syracuse and Ephesus. At 
length their quarrels waxed so fierce that neither town 
would permit any citizen belonging to its rival to come 
within its gates. In case any man was so reckless as to 
venture into the hostile city, he was liable to be seized 
and held as a prisoner. In that event, he must either 
pay a large sum of money for ransom, or die like a 
criminal. 

On one occasion, ^geon, an aged merchant of Syra- 
cuse, was found in Ephesus and brought before the 
duke to receive sentence. In pronouncing judgment, 
the duke told ^geon that it was useless for him to 
plead, for he could not show mercy, even if he desired 
to do so, since the Duke of Syracuse had executed some 
Ephesian merchants who had been taken in that city. 
It had been decreed, he said : — 

Both by the Syracusans and ourselves, 
To admit no traffic in our adverse towns : 
Nay, more, if any born at Ephesus, 
Be seen at any Syracusan marts and fairs, 
Again, if any Syracusan born, 
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, 
M i6i 



His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose ; 
Unless a thousand marks be levied, 
To quit the penalty, and to ransom him. 
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, 
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks ; 
Therefore, by law thou art condemned to die. 

tEgeon. Yet this my comfort ; when your words are 
done. 
My woes end likewise with the setting sun. 

Duke. Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, the cause 
Why thou departedst from thy native home ; 
And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus. 

Thus entreated, ^geon told a tale of sad loss. Twenty- 
five years previous to that time, he, having gone to the 
city of Epidamnum on a trading journey, was followed 
by his wife, Emilia, who, soon after her arrival, be- 
came : — 

The joyful mother of two goodly sons ; 

And, which was strange, the one so like the other, 

As could not be distinguished but by names. 

Strangely enough, another pair of twin boys was born 
to a poor slave mother, in the same inn, and on the same 
day. The wealthy merchant, hearing of this, thought 
that it would be very fine to have each of his sons at- 
tended by one of the twin slave boys ; so he purchased 
them for that purpose. 

Emilia soon began to urge her husband to return to 
their own city of Syracuse, and ^Egeon unwillingly con- 
sented. They had sailed but a short distance from the 
port when a violent storm arose, and it appeared that 

162 



the vessel must sink. /EgQon did all that was possible 
to do in the effort to save their lives. He bound two 
of the babes — one of his own children, and one little 
slave — to the end of a spare mast. At the other end, 
he fastened the other pair of infants, ^geon went on 
to tell : — 

The children thus disposed, my wife and I, 
Fastened ourselves at either end the mast ; 
And floating straight, obedient to the stream, 
Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought. 
At length, the sun, gazing upon the earth, 
Dispersed those vapors that offended us ; 
And, by the benefit of his wished light. 
The seas waxed calm, and we discovered 
Two ships from far making amain to us. 
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this : 
But ere they came, — O let me say no more ! 
Gather the sequel by that went before. 

Duke. Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so ; 
For we may pity, though not pardon thee. 

^geon continued sadly to tell that, before they could 
be picked up, the mast struck upon a rock, and was 
split in two. The wind quickly carried that end of the 
mast to which the mother was bound with two of the 
babes, within reach of one ship, while the father and 
the other boys were saved by the second vessel. 

During all the years since that sad day, JEgeon had 
sought in vain for his lost wife and the little ones who 
had disappeared with her. When the son whom he had 
brought up reached the age of eighteen years, he also 

163 



set out to search for the lost ones, ^geon contin- 
ued : — 

Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece, 
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus 
Hopeless to find, yet loth to leave unsought, 
Or that, or any place that harbors men. 
But here must end the story of my life ; 
And happy were I in my timely death. 
Could all my travels warrant me they live. 

The duke had listened with interest, and his sym- 
pathy prompted him to release the poor old father, but 
he dared not. He told ^geon, however : — 

Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, 
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity. 
Which princes, would they, may not disannul, 
My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 
But though thou art adjudged to the death, 
Yet will I favor thee in what I can : 
Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day, 
To seek thy help by beneficial help ; 
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus : 
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum. 
And live ; if no, then thou art doomed to die. 

Although the duke gave the aged merchant this 
respite because his heart had been touched by his sad 
story, he could hardly have expected that ^geon could 
find any one to become surety for him in the city that 
had sworn hostility to his nation. 

As ^geon passed out of the judgment hall, he 
lamented : — 

164 



Hopeless and helpless, doth yEgeon wend, 
But to procrastinate his liveless end. 

Now it happened that, unknown to ^geon, his son, 
Antipholus of Syracuse, who, as ^geon had told the 
duke, was also searching for his twin brother, had 
arrived in Ephesus that same morning. But he, being 
warned by an Ephesian merchant, gave out that his 
home was Epidamnum, instead of the hostile Syracuse. 

In those days there were no banks, so that travellers 
were obliged to carry their wealth in coin. Antipholus, 
desiring to take a walk and view the town, directed his 
servant Dromio to carry his money to an inn : — 

Antipholus. Go, bear it to the Centaur, where 

we host, 
And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. 
Within this hour it will be dinner-time : 
Till that, I'll view the manners of the town, 
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings. 
And then return, and sleep within mine inn ; 
For with long travel I am stiff and weary. 
Get thee away. 

In putting all his ready money into the hands of his 
slave, Antipholus showed that he had perfect confidence 
in Dromio's honesty. He told the merchant, who very 
likely looked surprised, that Dromio was — 

A trusty villain,^ sir, that very oft, 
When I am dull with care and melancholy, 
Lightens my humor with his merry jests. 
What, will you walk with me about the town, 

iboy. 

i6s 



And then go to my inn and dine with me ? 

Merchant. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, 
Of whom I hope to make much benefit ; 
I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock, 
Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart, 
And afterward consort you till bedtime ; 
My present business calls me from you now. 

Antipholus. Farewell till then : I will go lose myself. 
And wander up and down, to view the city. 

In saying that he would go lose himself, Antipholus 
could not foresee how strangely he would be lost in a 
maze of errors, arising from the fact that the other 
twins were residents of Ephesus. After the merchant 
had left him, he said to himself : — 

I to the world am like a drop of water, 
That in the ocean seeks another drop ; 
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, 
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: 
So I, to find a mother and a brother. 
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 

As Antipholus was starting upon his walk, he was 
surprised to meet Dromio, his slave, as he supposed. 
How he could have done his errand and returned so 
quickly, Antipholus could not understand. 

The truth is that the Dromio whom he met was not 
his own servant, but the other Dromio, who belonged 
to his lost brother, Antipholus of Ephesus ; for both 
masters were named Antipholus, and both slaves were 
called Dromio. This circumstance, added to the fact 
of an exact resemblance between each pair of brothers, 

1 66 



caused a succession of ridiculous mistakes that day in 
Ephesus. 

Tliey began when Antipholus of Syracuse asked his 
supposed servant how he could have returned from the 
inn so soon. The Dromio whom he was addressing 
had been sent out by his mistress, the lady Adriana, wife 
of the Ephesian Antipholus, to tell her husband that 
dinner was waiting, and to urge him to hasten home. 
Antipholus of Syracuse, not being married, was com- 
pletely mystified by these words of Dromio : — 

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit ; 
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell, 
My mistress made it one upon ray cheek : 
She is so hot, because the meat is cold ; 
The meat is cold, because you come not home ; 
You come not home, because you have no stomach ; 
You have no stomach, having broken your fast ; 
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray, 
Are penitent for your default to-day. 

Antipholus. Stop in your wind, sir ; tell me this, I 
pray: 
Where have you left the money that I gave you ? 

Dromio. O, — sixpence that I had o' Wednesday 
last. 
To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper ; 
The saddler had it, sir ; I kept it not. 

Antipholus. I am not in a sportive humor now : 
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money? 
We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust 
So great a charge from thine own custody ? 

Dromio. I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner : 
I from my mistress come to you in post ; 

167 



Methinks your maw/ like mine, should be your clock, 
And strike you home without a messenger. 

Antipholus. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are 
out of season ; 
Reserve them till a merrier hour than this : 
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee? 

Dromio. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me. 

Antipholus still thought that Dromio was trying to 
play a merry joke upon him, but he was in no mood for 
jesting, so he repeated his demand for a report as to what 
had become of the thousand marks. Dromio replied : — 

I have some marks of yours upon my pate, 
Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders, 
But not a thousand marks between you both. 
If I should pay your worship those again. 
Perchance you will not bear them patiently. 

Antipholus. Thy mistress' marks? what mistress, 
slave, hast thou? 

Dromio. Your worship's wife, my mistress at the 
Phoenix ; 
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner. 
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. 

Antipholus is so enraged at what he takes to be per- 
sistent jesting on Dromio's part, that he strikes the 
poor fellow. Thereupon, Dromio hastily makes his 
escape, he being as greatly puzzled as his supposed 
master. Antipholus, thinking that both he and Dromio 
are the victims of practical jokers, soliloquizes : — 

Upon my life, by some device or other. 
The villain is o'er-raught of all my money. 

1 stomach. 
1 68 



They say this town is full of cozenage ; 
As nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, 
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, 
Soul-killing witches that deform the body ; 
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner ; 
I'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave ; 
I greatly fear my money is not safe. 

At the Centaur Antipholus found his money safe, and 
learned that Dromio had wandered out in search of him. 
But the master still believed that he had been mocked 
by his own servant ; so when he met Dromio, shortly 
afterward, he spoke angrily to the innocent slave : — 

How now, sir ? is your merry humor altered ? 
As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 
You know no Centaur? You received no gold? 
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? 
My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad, 
That thus so madly thou didst answer me ? 

This Dromio, who had no idea to what his master 
referred, asked in astonishment : — 

What answer, sir ? When spoke I such a word ? 

Antipholus. Even now, even here, not half an hour 

since. 
Dromio. I did not see you since you sent me hence, 
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. 
Antipholus. Villain, thou didst deny the gold's re- 
ceipt. 
And told'st me of a mistress, and a dinner ; 
For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased. 

Dromio. I am glad to see you in this merry vein : 
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me. 

169 



This made Antipholus more angry than before, and 
thinking that Dromio was taking advantage of his kind 
famiharity to make a laughing-stock of him, he began 
to beat the poor fellow. Dromio, while smarting under 
the blows, begged to know why he was beaten. But as 
neither knew what had really happened, all that they 
said only increased their bewilderment. In the midst of 
their discussion, Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of 
Ephesus, with her sister Luciana, appeared upon the 
scene. 

Adriana, supposing that the man she addressed was 
her husband, reproached him for neglect of her, and, in 
particular, for keeping the dinner waiting so long. By 
this time, Antipholus hardly knew whether he was him- 
self or somebody else. He said to Adriana: — 

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not : 
In Ephesus I am but two hours old. 
As strange unto your town as to your talk ; 
Who, every word by all my wit being scanned, 
Want wit in all one word to understand. 

Upon this, the sister, Luciana, interposed : — 

Fie, brother ! how the world is changed with you ! 
When were you wont to use my sister thus ? 
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. 

Dromio exclaims in astonishment : — 

By me? 

Adriana. By thee ; and this thou didst return from 
him, — 
That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows, 

170 



Denied my house for his, me for his wife. 

Antipholus. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle- 
woman ? 
Dromio. I, sir? I never saw her till this time. 
Antipholus. Villain, thou liest ; for even her very 
words 
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 

Dromio. I never spake with her in all my life. 
Antipholus. How can she thus then call us by our 
names, 
Unless it be by inspiration ? 
What, was I married to her in my dreams ? 
Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this ? 
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? 

While Adriana had been scolding Antipholus, like the 
shrew she was, he had not failed to observe the sweet 
refined manner of her sister, who seemed to be, in very 
truth, a gentlewoman. So, in order to see more of 
Luciana, Antipholus decided to humor Adriana's mis- 
take, and go home with her to dinner. Dromio was 
bidden to act as porter, and to permit no one to enter 
while the dinner was in progress. He, poor fellow, 
concluded that he was, somehow, transformed, so puz- 
zling did he find the situation. He thought: — 

This is the fairy land ; — O, spite of spites ! 

We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites ; 

If we obey them not, this will ensue, 

They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. 

By the time dinner was well under way, the tardy 
husband of Adriana came home, and with him two 

171 



guests, business friends of his. His own Dromio fol- 
lowed at his heels, he having found his master at last, 
and delivered his mistress's message. He had also 
greatly mystified his master by declaring that he had 
met him a short time before, and that Antipholus had 
charged him with having had a thousand marks in gold 
from him, and had beaten him when he denied the 
charge. 

Both master and man were astonished beyond meas- 
ure when, on coming to the door of their own house, 
they were refused admittance by one who replied to the 
demand of Antipholus that he should tell who he was 
that was keeping him out of his own house : — 

The porter for this time, sir, 
And my name is Dromio, — 

whereupon, the other Dromio protested : — 

O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office and my name ; 
The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 

They made so much disturbance with knocking and 
calling that Adriana came to see what it was all about. 
When her husband heard her voice, he expected that 
she would have the door opened at once, but, to his 
amazement, she refused to acknowledge his right to 
enter, saying that Antipholus was within, and that he 
must be an impostor. Then the true owner was about 
to beat the door down, but he was dissuaded from that 
by one of his guests, who urged him : — 

Have patience, sir ; O let it not be so. 
Herein you war against your reputation, 
172 



And draw within the compass of suspect 

The unviolated honor of your wife. 

Your long experience of her wisdom, 

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty. 

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ; 

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 

Why at this time the doors are made against you. 

Be ruled by me ; depart in patience, 

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner : 

And, about evening, come yourself alone, 

To know the reason of this strange restraint. 

If by strong hand you offer to break in. 

Now in the stirring passage of the day, 

A vulgar comment will be made of it. 

Antipholus acknowledged the v^^isdom of this advice, 
but he declared that he would make his wife sorry by 
giving another woman a gold necklace which he had 
purchased for her. 

The Syracusan Antipholus, although enjoying the 
dinner, and still more the company of the gentle 
Luciana, felt that he had, unwittingly, become involved 
in such a tangle, that he was anxious to extricate him- 
self by leaving the city where everybody seemed to 
know him, while he knew nobody. So he left as soon 
as possible after dinner, bidding Dromio go to the 
harbor, and ascertain whether any ship were to sail that 

night.. 

Antipholus. Go, hie thee presently — 
And if the wind blow any way from shore, 
I will not harbor in this town to-night. 
If any bark put forth, come to the mart. 
Where I will walk till thou return to me. 

173 



If every one knows us, and we know none, 
'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone. 
There's none but witches do inhabit here ; 
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence. 
She, that doth call me husband, even my soul 
Doth for a wife abhor ; but her fair sister, 
Possessed with such a gentle sovereign grace, 
Of such enchanting presence and discourse, 
Hath almost made me traitor to myself : 
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, 
I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. 

At this moment, Antipholus was accosted by the 
goldsmith, of whom his twin brother had ordered the 
necklace, and who was bringing the chain, as he had 
been instructed to do. He called : — 

Master Antipholus? 

Antipholus. Ay, that's my name. 

Goldsmith. I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain. 

Antipholus. What is your will that I shall do with this? 

Goldsmith. What please yourself, sir ; I have made it for 
you. 

Antipholus. Made it for me, sir ! I bespoke it not. 

Goldsmith. Not once, or twice, but twenty times you have : 
Go home with it, and please your wife withal ; 
And soon at supper-time I'll visit you. 
And then receive my money for the chain. 

Antipholus. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, 
For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. 

Goldsmith. You are a merry man, sir; fare you well. 

As the goldsmith departs, Antipholus says to him- 
self : — 

174 



What I should thmk of this I cannot tell : 
But this I think, there's no man is so vain 
That would refuse so fair an offered chain. 
I see, a man here needs not live by shifts, 
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. 
I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay ; 
If any ship put out, then straight away. 

The goldsmith's mistake in giving the chain to the 
wrong Antipholus cost him much trouble. He had de- 
pended upon the money for that chain for means where- 
with to discharge a debt of his own. The merchant to 
whom he was indebted now demanded immediate pay- 
ment, and threatened the goldsmith with arrest, if the 
money were not at once forthcoming. While they were 
discussing the matter, Antipholus of Ephesus came along. 
Then there were angry words on both sides, the gold- 
smith appealing to Antipholus to give him the money 
for the chain, and Antipholus denying that the necklace 
had been delivered. 

Naturally, the goldsmith thought that this denial 
was a falsehood, since he was sure that he had given 
Antipholus the chain less than half an hour before. 
Antipholus, on his part, requested the goldsmith to take 
the chain to his house, deliver it to his wife, and get the 
money from her. The goldsmith replied : — 

Well, sir, I will : have you the chain about you? 

Antipholus. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have ; 
Or else you may return without your money. 

Goldsmith. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain. 

Antipholus. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money. 

175 



^ 



Goldsmith. Come, come, you know I gave it you even now ; 
Either send the chain, or send me by some token. 

Antipholus. You gave me none ; you wrong me much to 
say so. 

Goldsmith: You wrong me more, sir, in denying it. 
Either consent to pay this sum for me, 
Or I attach you by this officer. 

Antipholus. Consent to pay thee that I never had ! 
Arrest me, fooHsh fellow, if thou dar'st. 

The goldsmith, feeling that it was useless to argue 
longer with one who^as he supposed, denied having re- 
ceived the chain onlj to avoid paying for it, ordered the 
arrest of Antipholus. Just as the officer was about to 
lead him away,^tip'wever, up came the Dromio who had 
been sent to'^^ngage passage on an outgoing vessel. 
Thinking tliat he saw his own master, Dromio re- 
ported : -^ ' 

Master, there's a bark of Epidamnum, 
T^at stays but till her owner comes aboard, 

«:i then, sir, she bears away : our fraughtage,^ sir, 
ave conveyed aboard ; the merry wind 
f Blows fair from land : they stay for naught at all, 
But for their owner, master, and yourself. 

Antipholus of Ephesus thought that the fellow had 
lost his mind, to talk about a ship and sailing, when he 
had not thought of leaving the city. Biit his first de- 
sire, at that moment, was to secure his own release, so 
he bade Dromio hasten to his house, tell his wife of his 
arrest, and ask her to send money that she would find 
in his desk, so that he might give bail for his liberty. 

aggaj 

176 



The perplexed slave, although very unwilling to return 
to the house where they had dined, felt that he must 

obey : — 

Thither I must, although against my will, 
For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. 

Adriana, although a shrewish wife, was much dis- 
tressed to learn that her husband had been arrested, 
and she gave Dromio the money for his release, telling 

him : — 

Go, Dromio ; there's the money, bear it straight,^ 
And bring thy master home immediately. 

But everything seemed to go criss-cross in Ephesus 
that day. As he was hastening back with the money, 
Dromio met his true master, Antipholus of Syracuse, 
and told him that he had brought the gold as he had 
directed ; but not seeing any police officer, he asked 
Antipholus how he had rid himself of the man. 

Antipholus, who knew of no arrest, or why the gold 
should have been brought, thought that both Dromio 
and himself were wandering in illusions. So he was 
more anxious than before to get away from a place 
where he was losing himself continually. He said : — 

There's not a man I meet but doth salute me, 
As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; 
And every one doth call me by my name. 
Some tender money to me ; some invite me ; 
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; 
Some offer me commodities to buy : 
Even now a tailor called me in his shop, 

1 immediately. 
N 177 



And showed me silks that he had bought for me^ 
And, therewithal, took measure of my body. 
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles. 
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 

Meanwhile, Antipholus of Ephesus was still in the 
hands of the officer, waiting, not very patiently, you 
may be sure, for the money that would release him. 
His own man now appeared with a rope, which he had 
brought as he had been commanded to do. He did not 
even know of his master's arrest, and he could not un- 
derstand why Antipholus should be so angry with him 
as to begin to beat him unmercifully. While writhing 
under the blows, he moaned : — 

I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this in- 
stant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows ; 
when I am cold, he heats me with beating ; when I am warm, 
he cools me with beating ; I am waked with it when I sleep ; 
raised with it when I sit ; driven out of doors with it when I 
go from home ; welcomed home with it when I return ; and I 
think, when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to 
door. 

And now came the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, 
with a quack doctor, who claimed to have the power to 
drive out evil spirits. Adriana had persuaded herself 
that her husband's strange actions must be due to his 
having lost his mind, and in that age, insanity was 
attributed to the influence of demons. She was con- 
firmed in this opinion when Antipholus stoutly denied 
that he had dined at home that day, although Adriana 
and her sister, too, as confidently asserted that he had 

178 



done so. Adriana also told Antipholus that she had 
sent him money by Dromio. The poor trembling slave 
contradicted the statements of both master and mis- 
tress, saying that he had not been sent, and that he had 
received no gold. 

The doctor declared that both man and master were 
possessed with evil spirits, and should be bound and 
placed in a dark room. He invoked : — 

Satan, housed within this man, 
To yield possession to my holy prayers, 
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight; 
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. 

Antipholus, enraged by such treatment from his wife, 
threatened to pluck out her false eyes. In terror, 
Adriana cried to the doctor : — 

O bind him, bind him, let him not come near me. 
Good master doctor, see him safe conveyed 
Home to my house. O most unhappy day ! 

The goldsmith, failing to receive the money for the 
chain, was unable to discharge his debt to the merchant. 
As he was trying to excuse himself to his creditor, on 
the ground that Antipholus refused to pay for the chain, 
and denied having received it, along came Antipholus of 
Syracuse, wearing the chain about his neck. Amazed 
at the sight, the goldsmith addressed him, saying: — 

Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
That you would put me to this shame and trouble, 
And not without some scandal to yourself, 
With circumstance and oaths, so to deny 

179 



This chain, which now you wear so openly : 
This chain you had of me, can you deny it? 

Antipholus. I think I had ; I never did deny it. 

Merchant. Yes, that you did, sir ; and forswore it too. 

Antipholus. Who heard me to deny it, or forswear it? 

Merchant. These ears of mine, thou knowest, did hear 
thee. 
Fie on thee, wretch ! 'tis pity that thou hv'st 
To walk where any honest men resort. 

This unjust accusation inflamed Antipholus of Syra- 
cuse to that degree, that he drew his sword and attacked 
the merchant. At that moment Adriana and her 
sister happened to come along. Seeing the men with 
their swords drawn, they supposed that the Antipholus 
who had been bound had escaped. So Adriana cried 
out to the merchant : — 

Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake ; he is mad ; 
Some get within him, take his sword away : 
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to mv house. 

The gate of a neighboring convent happened to be 
standing open, and the two distracted men rushed into 
this hospitable shelter. Presently, the abbess, a rever- 
end lady, came out to inquire into the cause of the dis- 
turbance. To her Adriana appealed for possession of 
her husband who, as she thought, had just entered the 
convent. The abbess was a shrewd reader of character, 
and she led Adriana on to confess that she had been a 
jealous woman, and that she had berated her husband 
day and night. Then the abbess sharply reproved the 
scolding wife, telling her : — - 

1 80 



And therefore came it that the man was mad : 

The venom clamors of a jealous woman 

Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. 

It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing : 

And therefore comes it that his head is light. 

Thou say'st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings : 

Unquiet meals make ill digestions, 

Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; 

And what's a fever but a fit of madness? 

Thou say'st his sports were hindered by thy brawls : 

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue 

But moody and dull melancholy, 

Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair? 

In food, in sport, and Hfe-preserving rest 

To be disturbed, would mad or man, or beast : 

The consequence is then, thy jealous fits 

Have scared thy husband from the use of wits. 

So saying, the abbess retired to nurse the injured 
man back to health, as she told Adriana. 

By this time, it was almost night, and as no one had 
been found who would pay the ransom for ^geon, he 
was being led to execution. The way led past the con- 
vent, and as Adriana turned, she beheld the procession 
coming with the duke at the head. Now the duke 
had long been a patron of her husband's, and a friend 
of her own family, so when Adriana saw him, she impul- 
sively threw herself in his path, crying : — 

Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess ! 
Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady ; 
_ It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. 

Adriana. May it please your grace, Antipholus, 
my husband, — 

i8i 



Whom I made lord of me and all I had, 
At your important ^ letters, — this ill day 
A most outrageous fit of madness took him. 
Once did I get him bound, and sent him home ; 
Anon, I wot - not by what strong escape, 
He broke from those that had the guard of him ; 
And, with his mad attendant and himself. 
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn svvordsj 
Met us again, and, madly bent on us, 
Chased us away ; till, raising of more aid. 
We came again to bind them : then they fled 
Into this abbey, whither we pursued them ; 
And here the abbess shuts the gates on us. 
And will not suffer us to fetch him out. 
Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence. 
Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command, 
Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 
Duke. Long since, thy husband served me in my 
wars ; 
And I to thee engaged a prince's word. 
To do him all the grace and good I could. 
Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate. 
And bid the lady abbess come to me ; 
I will determine this before I stir. 

Even while the duke was speaking, a messenger 
came running to tell Adriana that her husband had 
freed himself, beaten the servants, and bound the 
doctor ; and that he was now searching for her, 
vowing to take vengeance upon her for having him 
confined. Adriana was so certain that she had seen 
her husband enter the convent that she did not credit 

1 urgent. 2 know. 

182 



the servant's story ; but the next instant she was 
astounded to see Antipholus approaching, followed by 
Dromio. 

Antipholus, in his turn, appealed to the duke, say- 
ing:— 

Justice, most gracious dake, oh, grant me justice ! 
Even for the service that long since I did thee, 
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took 
Deep scars to save thy life ; even for the blood 
That then I lost for thee, novi^ grant me justice ! 
Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there. 
She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife ; 
That hath abused and dishonored me, 
Even in the strength and height of injury ! 
Beyond imagination is the wrong 
That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. 

Antipholus went on to tell the duke how Adriana 
had locked the doors against him at dinner time ; how 
he had been arrested and had sent his slave to Adriana 
for gold to release him, but that Dromio had returned 
without any money ; how, as he was on his way to the 
house with an officer — 

We met my wife, her sister, and a rabble more 
Of vile confederates ; along with them 
Tliey brought a mountebank,^ 
A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, 
A living dead man : this pernicious slave 
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer, 
And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 
Cries out, I was possessed ; then all together 

1 quack, impostor. 
183 



They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence : 

And in a dark and dankish vault at home 

There left me and my man, both bound together ; 

Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 

I gained my freedom, and immediately 

Ran hither to your grace ; whom I beseech 

To give me ample satisfaction 

For these deep shames and great indignities. 

While Antipholus had been talking, the aged ^geon 
had been an absorbed listener, for he recognized the 
face of his son, and he felt that his life would now be 
saved. He supposed that this was the son from whom 
he had parted at Syracuse seven years before. So, at 
the first pause, he ventured to say to the duke : — 

Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word ; 
Haply I see a friend will save my life. 
And pay the sum that may dehver me. 

Duke. Speak freely, Syracusan, what thou wilt. 

With this permission, ^Egeon addressed Antipholus : — 

Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus? 
And is not that your bondman Dromio? 
I am sure you both of you remember me. 

Antipholus. I never saw you in my life, till now. 

^GEON. Oh ! grief hath changed me since you saw 
me last ; 
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice? 

Antipholus. Neither. 

^GEON. Dromio, nor thou? 

Dromio. No, trust me, sir, nor I. 

^GEON. Not know my voice ! O, time's extremity ! 

184 



Hast thou so cracked and splitted my poor tongue, 
In seven short years, that here my only son 
Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares? 
Though now this grained face of mine be hid 
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, 
Yet hath my night of life some memory, 
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, 
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : 
All these old witnesses (I cannot err) 
Tell me, thou art my son Antipholus. 

Antipholus. I never saw my father in my life. 

yEcEON. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, 
Thou knovv'st we parted : but, perhaps, my son, 
Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery. 

Antipholus. The duke, and all that know me in 
the city, 
Can witness with me that it is not so ; 
I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life. 

Just as the poor old father was about to yield to 
despair, the door of the convent opened, and the abbess 
came forth, accompanied by the other Antipholus and 
his Dromio. Then what amazement appeared in the 
eyes of Adriana, who thought that she saw two hus- 
bands, and no less in the eyes of the two doubles, each 
of whom beheld his own reflection in the face of his 
counterpart. 

It was the abbess who solved the mystery, for she 
recognized her husband in ^geon. To him she said : — 

Speak, old ^geon, if thou be'st the man 
That hadst a wife once called Emilia, 
That bore thee at a burthen two fair sons : 
i8s 



O, if thou be'st the same JEgeon, speak, 
And speak unto the same ^EmiUa ! 

^GEON. If I dream not, thou art Emilia : 
If thou art she, tell me, where is that son 
That floated with thee on the fatal raft? 

The fate of Emilia since their parting had been even 
more full of sorrow than that of JEgQon, for she had not 
been permitted to keep the boys that were with her upon 
the raft. They had been seized by fishermen of Corinth, 
and she, bereft of husband and children, had entered a 
convent, and in course of time, had become the head of 
her house. Her kind reception of the persecuted An- 
tipholus of Syracuse had been the means of reuniting 
the family so long and so strangely separated. 

Then followed mutual explanations, by means of which 
the various errors that had caused so many painful expe- 
riences that day were so pleasantly untangled that they 
seemed to be only so many chapters in a laughable 
comedy. 

The Duke refused to take the ransom which was 
offered by Antipholus of Ephesus for the life of his 
father. Thus the cruel law which had so long bred a 
deadly hatred between the two cities was disregarded. 
At the invitation of the abbess, the duke attended the 
feast that was given in the abbey to celebrate the happy 
reunion of parents and sons. 

Antipholus of Syracuse took this opportunity to win 
the affection of Luciana, who did not now repulse his 
suit. The twin slaves shared in the general rejoicing; 
for as each looked at the other, he saw himself as in a 



glass, and discovered to his great satisfaction that he 
was a " sweet-faced youth." They had their part in the 
celebration feast, and as they entered the abbey, they 
settled a playful contention as to who should go first by 
deciding — 

We came into the world like brother and brother : 
And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another. 



187 



TWELFTH NIGHT 



TWELFTH NIGHT 

Orsino, duke of the ancient kingdom of Illyria, was 
madly in love with a lady who disdained his suit. 
Olivia — that was the lady's name — was a wealthy 
orphan who, at the time our story opens, had just suf- 
fered a fresh affliction in the death of her only brother. 
In her grief, she vowed to give herself to mourning for 
the space of seven years, during which time she would 
not appear in public without being closely veiled : — 

— all this, to season, 
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh 
And lasting, in her sad remembrance. 

The duke was a very persistent wooer, however, and 
he continued to send Olivia frequent messages of love, 
in the belief that she could not hold out against him 
forever. He thought that so devoted a sister could not 
fail to make an equally devoted wife, if once her heart 
were touched : — 

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame 
To pay this debt of love but to a brother. 
How will she love when the rich golden shaft 
Hath killed the flock of all affections else 

191 



That live in her ; when liver, brain, and heart, 

These sovereign thrones, are all supphed ; and filled — 

Her sweet perfection — with one self king ! 

About this time, a new page was received into the 
duke's household, in the person of a young woman in 
disguise. It was some sad misfortune, we may be sure, 
that had caused a refined girl, such as Viola was, to 
assume the garb of a young man. 

She, and her twin brother, Sebastian, were taking a sea- 
voyage, in the course of which their ship was wrecked 
upon the coast of Illyria. The brother and sister were 
separated, and Viola was saved by the captain, who 
befriended her to the best of his ability. When Viola 
lamented her brother's loss, the captain tried to give 
her hope by telling her : — 

— after our ship did split. 
When you, and those poor number saved with you, 
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 
Most provident in peril, bind himself. 
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice, 
To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea. 

Viola. Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope. 
Whereto thy speech serves for authority, 
The like of him. Know'st thou this country? 

Captain. Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and born 
Not three hours' travel from this very place. 

Viola. Who governs here ? 

Captain. A noble duke, in nature as in name. 

Viola. What is his name ? 

Captain. Orsino. 

192 



Viola. Orsino ! I have heard my father name him ; 
He was a bachelor then. 

Captain. And so is now, or was so very late. 

The captain then told Viola of the duke's suit to Olivia, 
and of her secluding herself from the world on account 
of the death of her brother. Viola expressed a great de- 
sire to enter the service of Olivia, but since that seemed 
impracticable, she persuaded the kind-hearted captain to 
purchase a page's suit for her, in which she might apply 
to be admitted into the duke's household as his servant. 

This plan was successful, and Viola, under the as- 
sumed name of Cesario, quickly won the favor of the 
duke, so that he kept her in close attendance upon him- 
self. He was very fond of music and, in his love-lorn 
state, he took great delight in listening to sweet melo- 
dies. Viola had a pleasing voice, and could sing, and 
"speak to him in many sorts of music." Her gentle 
arts won the duke's confidence, and he conceived the 
idea that Cesario might be able to persuade Olivia to 
look more favorably upon his suit. So he bade the 
page go to Olivia's house, and remain there until, by 
some means, he could gain an audience with the lady. 

Viola, or Cesario, as we must now call her, inquired: — 

Say, I do speak with her, my lord; what then? 

Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love ; 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith. 
It shall become thee well to act my woes ; 
She will attend it better in thy youth. 
Than in a nuncio ^ of more grave aspect. 
1 messenger. 

o 193 



Viola. I think not so, my lord. 

Duke. Dear lad, believe it j 

For they shall yet belie thy happy years 
That say thou art a man : Diana's Hp 
Is not more smooth and rubious^ ; thy small pipe 
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound. 
And all is semblative a woman's part. 
Prosper well in this. 

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord. 
To call his fortunes thine. 

Viola. I'll do my best 

To woo your lady. 

It was with a heavy heart that Viola made this prom- 
ise, for she had already learned to love the noble duke ; 
but she valued honor above happiness, and she was re- 
solved to use her best endeavors in behalf of her kind 
patron. When she came to the door of Olivia's house, 
it being known that she was the duke's messenger, 
she was refused admittance, but nothing daunted, she 
would take no denial, and declared that she would not go 
away until she was granted an interview with the lady. 
Olivia's servant reported to his mistress : — 

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. 
I told him you were sick ; he takes on him to understand so 
much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him 
you were asleep ; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that 
too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be 
said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. 

Olivia. Of what personage and years is he? 

Servant. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough 

1 rosy. 
194 



for a boy. He is very well-favored/ and he speaks very shrew- 
ishly.^ 

Olivia. Let him approach. 
Give me my veil ; come, throw it o'er my face. 
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. 

In the interview that followed, Viola used flattery 
and every other art of which she was mistress, in order 
to make a favorable impression, and so to advance the 
duke's cause. She could not have foreseen what the 
effect would be — that Olivia would be so attracted by 
her engaging manners as to fall in love with the fasci- 
nating page herself. Upon entering, Viola, not know- 
ing any one present, said : — 

The honorable lady of the house, which is she ? 

Olivia. Speak to me ; I shall answer for her. Your will ? 

Viola. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, — 
I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never 
saw her : I would be loath to cast away my speech ; for, besides 
that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to 
con it. 

Olivia. Whence came you, sir? 

Viola. I can say little more than I have studied, and that 
question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest- 
assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed 
in my speech. 

Olivia. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Viola. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then 
show you the heart of my message. 

Olivia. Come to what is important in't ; I forgive you the 
praise. 

Viola. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. 

1 fine-looking. 2 sharpl}', pertly. 



Olivl\. It is the more like to be feigned ; I pray you, keep 
it in. If you be not mad, be gone ; if you have reason, be 
brief. Where Hes your text? 
Viola. In Orsino's bosom. 

In Orsino's bosom ! In what chapter of his bosom? 
To answer by method, in the first of his heart. 
O, I have read it ; it is heresy. Have you no more 



Olwia. 
Viola. 
Olivia. 
to say? 
Viola. 



Good Madam, let me see your face. 



By this time, Olivia was so enchanted with the page's 
quick wit that she wilUngly consented to remove her 
veil. The sight of her beauty called forth such lively 
praise from the duke's messenger that Olivia asked 
whether he were sent thither to praise her. Viola 
replied : — 

I see what you are, you are too proud ; 

But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 

My lord and master loves you ; O, such love 

Could be but recompensed, though you were crowned 

The nonpareil of beauty ! 

Olivia. How does he love me? 

Viola. With adorations, with fertile tears, 
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 

Olivia. Your lord does know my mind ; I cannot 
love him ; 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Viola. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
In your denial I would find no sense ; 
I would not understand it. 

Olivia. Why, what would you ? 

Viola. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
196 



And call upon my soul within the house ; 
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills, 
And make the babbUng gossip of the air 
Cry out, Olivia ! O, you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 
But you should pity me. 

Olivia. You might do much. What is your parent- 
age? 

Viola. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
I am a gentleman. 

Olivia. Get you to your lord ; 

I cannot love him : let him send no more ; 
Unless, perchance, you come to me again. 
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well. 

ViOL.4. Farewell, fair cruelty. 

After the departure of the page, Olivia turned his 
words about himself over in her mind, dv^elling espe- 
cially upon what he had said about his parentage being 
above his fortunes. His ardor in pleading his master's 
cause excited the lady's admiration for himself. She 
mused : — 

Methinks I feel this youth's perfections. 

With an invisible and subtle stealth. 

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 

To make sure that the page should have some reason 
for coming again, Olivia called her servant, and gave 
him a ring, commanding him to run after the youth, and 
to say that he had left this ring as a gift from the duke, 
but that she would not have it, adding : — 

Desire him not to flatter with his lord. 
Nor hold him up with hopes ; I am not for him : 

197 



If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, 
I'll give him reasons for it. 

Olivia's act in thus forcing a valuable ring upon 
Cesario may seem unmaidenly, but in those days, ladies 
of rank who loved those beneath them in station were 
accustomed to do much of the wooing. Viola was 
quick-witted enough to interpret the gift as Olivia had 
intended it, and she was dismayed to find that, instead 
of aiding her master, she had unwittingly become his 
rival. When the servant offered her the ring, she re- 
fused to take it. Whereupon, he threw it upon the 
ground at her feet, saying : — 

If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye ; if not, 
be it his that finds it. 

Viola was sadly distressed by the outcome of her 
well-meant effort in the duke's behalf, and she said to 
herself : — 

I left no ring with her ; what means this lady ? 

Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her ! 

She made good view of me ; indeed, so much, 

That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue, 

For she did speak in starts distractedly. 

She loves me, sure ; the cunning of her passion 

Invites me in this churlish messenger. 

None of my lord's ring ! why, he sent her none. 

I am the man : If it be so (as 'tis). 

Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. 

How will this fadge^? My master loves her dearly; 

1 prosper. 
198 



And I, poor monster, fond as much^ on him; 
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 
What will become of this? As I am man. 
My state is desperate for my master's love ! 
As I am woman, — now alas the day ! — 
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ! 
O time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 
It is too hard a knot for me to untie. 

The duke's passion w^as in no wise lessened by the ill 
success of his page v^ith the fair Olivia. On the con- 
trary, he indulged it still more, almost seeming to luxu- 
riate in sighs and love-music. He daily grew more fond 
of the page Cesario, whose disguise he never once sus- 
pected. Still, he was so impressed by Cesario's tender, 
sympathetic manner that he asked the youth one day : — 

My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye 
Hath stayed upon some favor that it loves ; 
Hath it not, boy? 

Viola. A little, by your favor. 

Duke. What kind of woman is 't? 

Viola. Of your complexion. 

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith? 

Viola. About your years, my lord. 

Duke. Too old, by heaven ! Let thy love be younger than 
thyself, 
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent. 

The duke then begged the page to go to Olivia once 
more, and — 

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world. 
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ; 
1 am as fond of. 



The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, 
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ; 
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems, 
That nature pranks ^ her in, attracts my soul. 

Viola. But if she cannot love you, sir? 

Duke. I cannot so be answered. 

Viola. Sooth, but you must. 

Say, that some lady, as perhaps, there is. 
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
You tell her so : must she not then be answered? 

Duke. Make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me, 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Viola. Ay, but I know — 

Duke. What dost thou know? 

Viola. Too well what love women to men may owe ; 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter loved a man. 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what's her history? 

Viola. A blank, my lord. She never told her love. 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud. 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ; 
And with a green and yellow melancholy 
She sat, like patience on a monument. 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? 

Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house. 
And all the brothers too ; — and yet I know not. 
Sir, shall I to this lady? 

Duke. Ay, that's the theme. 

1 decks, adorns. 
200 



To her in haste ; give her this jewel; say, 
My love can give no place, bide no denay.^ 

It was very stupid in the duke not to read Viola's 
secret in this virtual confession, but he was so entirely 
wrapped up in his own feelings that he had neither eyes 
nor ears for aught else. So Viola went her way to the 
lady, who welcomed her for her own sake, or rather for 
the sake of the fine youth which she appeared to be. 
In reply to Viola's pleading for the duke, saying : — 

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts 
On his behalf, — 

Olivia exclaimed impatiently : — 

O, by your leave, I pray you ; 

I bade you never speak again of him ; 

But, would you undertake another suit, 

I had rather hear you to solicit that 

Than music from the spheres. 

Viola. Dear lady, — 

Olivia. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, 

After the last enchantment you did here, 

A ring in chase of you ; so did I abuse 

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you : 

Under your hard construction must I sit. 

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 

Which you knew none of yours; what might you think? 
Viola. I pity you. 

Olivia. That's a degree to love. • 

Viola. No, not a grise ^ ; for 'tis a vulgar proof, 

That very oft we pity enemies. 

1 denial. 2 step. 

20 1 



Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship ! 
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 

Olivia. Stay : 
I prithee tell me, what thou think'st of me. 

Viola. That you do think you are not what you are. 

Olivia. If I think so, I think the same of you. 

Viola. Then think you right ; I am not what I am. 

Olivia. I would you were as I would have you be ! 
Cesario, by the roses of the spring. 
By maidhood, honor, truth, and everything, 
I love thee so, that, maugre ^ all thy pride. 
Nor wit nor reason, can my passion hide. 
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 

Viola. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, 
And that no woman has ; nor never none 
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
Will I my master's tears to you deplore. 

Olivia. Yet come again ; for thou, perhaps, mayst move 
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. 

Viola was finding her disguise a source of increasing 
annoyance, and it now led to serious difficulty. Olivia's 
uncle, a foolish old man, had a friend named Sir An- 
drew Aguecheek, whom he desired his niece to marry. 
Olivia had shown her warmth of feeling for the young 
page so plainly that Sir Andrew concluded that it was 
useless for him to try to win her hand. But the uncle, 
Sir Toby, would not give up so easily. He insisted that 
the proper thing for Sir Andrew to do, under the cir- 
cumstances, was to challenge the page to fight a duel. 

1 in spite of. 
202 



So, at the first opportunity, Viola was inveigled into 
meeting Sir Andrew, who, to tell the truth, was a cow- 
ard, and was induced to face Viola only on Sir Toby's 
assuring him that he had talked with the page, and that 
" he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a sol- 
dier, he will not hurt you." This promise the trembling 
Viola was very willing to make, as you may well believe. 

Just as they had taken their places and drawn their 
swords, however, they were interrupted by the entrance 
of a strange man, who said to Sir Andrew : — 

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman 
Have done offence, I take the fault on me; 
If you offend him, I for him defy you. 
Sir Toby. You, sir ! why, what are you ? 

For reply, the stranger drew his sword, and was 
about to fight with Sir Toby ; but, at that moment, some 
officers of the law appeared, and arrested the stranger 
in the duke's name. It seems that he was a sea-cap- 
tain, who had formerly taken an active part in a war 
against the duke, and the officers had orders to arrest 
him, if he should ever be found in Illyria. 

As he was about to be led away, the sea-captain, 
whose name was Antonio, said to Viola : — 

This comes with seeking you : 
But there's no remedy ; I shall answer it. 
What will you do, now my necessity 
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me 
Much more for what I cannot do for you, 
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed ; 

203 



But be of comfort. 

I must entreat of you some of that money. 

Viola. What money, sir? 
For the fair kindness you have showed me here, 
I'll lend you something. My having is not much ; 
Hold, there is half my coffer. 

Antonio appeared to be greatly surprised that Viola 
did not recognize him, and that she should deny having 
his purse, which he declared he had given her a short 
time before. To the officers, who grew impatient, he 

said : — 

This youth that you see here 

I snatched one half out of the jaws of death; 

Relieved him with such sanctity of love, — 

And to his image, which methought did promise 

Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 

But O how vile an idol proves this god ; — 

Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. — 

In nature, there's no blemish but the mind ; 

None can be called deformed but the unkind. 

The name Sebastian, by which the captain had called 
her, gave Viola the key to the meaning of his puzzling 
words. For Sebastian was the name of her twin 
brother, who, as you remember, was parted from her at 
the time of the shipwreck, and whom she had rnourned 
as lost. The captain's words gave her hope that her 
brother was alive, and that her strong resemblance to 
him had caused the stranger's mistake. 

Such was really the case. Sebastian had been picked 
up by Antonio, who, in the weeks that had since elapsed, 
had become very fond of the young man. Antonio was 

204 



fully aware that he ran a great risk in entering Orsino's 
dukedom, and he had not intended to let himself be 
seen, but the chance encounter with Viola, just as she 
was attacked by Sir Andrew, made him forget precau- 
tions for his own safety. When he and Sebastian had 
parted after landing, he had given the young man his 
purse, with instructions to engage lodgings for them 
both at an inn called the '' Elephant." The page's 
failure to recognize him, and his denial of having re- 
ceived Antonio's purse seemed to the distressed captain 
nothing but rank ingratitude. 

Hardly had Viola disappeared when her brother came 
sauntering past Olivia's house. Sir Andrew spied him, 
and taking him for the page Cesario, he struck at him. 
But he found the stout young fellow more than a match 
for him. Thereupon, Olivia came running out to part 
them. She, like the others, took Sebastian to be the 
young page with whom she had fallen in love, and she 
thus entreated him : — 

Be not offended, dear Cesario ! I prithee, gentle friend, 
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
In this uncivil and unjust extent ^ 
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house ; 
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
This ruffian hath botched up, that thou thereby 
Mayst smile at this : thou shalt not choose but go ; 
Nay, come, I prithee : would thou'dst be ruled by me ! 
Sebastian. Madam, I will. 

Olivia found Sebastian ready to meet her advances 
halfway, for he was greatly attracted by her beauty and 

1 conduct. 
205 



her warmth of manner. But he could not understand 
her allusions to previous meetings, and when she left 
him alone for a short time, he began to wonder what 
was the meaning of all these favors on her part. He 
felt as if he were in a sort of fairyland, where nothing 
was exactly as it seemed. He said to himself : — 

This is the air ; that is the glorious sun : 

This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't : 

And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, 

Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then ? 

I could not find him at the Elephant : 

Yet there he was ; and there I found this credit, 

That he did range the town to seek me out. 

His counsel now might do me golden service : 

For though my soul disputes well with my sense, 

That this may be some error, but no madness, 

Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune 

So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes, 

And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me 

To any other trust, but that I am mad, 

Or else the lady's mad ; yet, if 'twere so. 

She could not sway her house, command her followers 

With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing. 

As I perceive she does : there's something in 't 

That is deceivable. 

When you hear what Olivia did next, you will won- 
der, as did Sebastian, whether she were not mad. The 
truth is that she was accustomed to having her own way 
in everything, and thus she had become wilful and im- 
patient of contradiction. But we must do her the justice 

206 



to remember that she supposed that it was Cesario whom 
she had rescued from his assailants, and that he already 
knew how much she loved him. For, in order to rid 
herself of Orsino's unwelcome importunities, she pro- 
posed to Sebastian that they should be married at once. 
As was the custom in those days, she had a private 
chapel on her own estate. She came to Sebastian 
with the priest, and said : -- 

Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, 
Now go with me and with this holy man, 
Into the chantry by : there, before him, 
And underneath that consecrated roof, 
Plight me the full assurance of your faith ; 
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace. — What do you say? 

Sebastian. I'll follow this good man, and go 
with you ; 
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 

Olivia. Then lead the way, good father : — and 
heavens so shine. 
That they may fairly note this act of mine ! 

When Viola reported to the duke what had happened 
— the unprovoked assault upon her, and her equally sur- 
prising rescue by the stranger captain — her kind patron 
offered to go with her to Olivia's, in the hope of unrav- 
elling the mystery. As they came to the house, they 
were met by the oificers with Antonio in charge. At 
sight of Antonio, Viola said to the duke : — 

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. 

Orsino remembered Antonio as the man who had 
defeated his own sailors in battle, and he now railed 

207 



at the valiant captain, calling him " pirate " and '' salt- 
water thief." In reply, Antonio thus defended himself 
for being found in the city of his enemy : — 

Orsino, noble sir, 
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me ; 
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, 
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, 
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither : 
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side. 
From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth 
Did I redeem ; a wrack past hope he was : 
His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
My love, without retention or restraint, 
All his in dedication : for his sake. 
Did I expose myself, pure for his love, 
Into the danger of this adverse town ; 
Drew to defend him when he was beset ; 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
Not meaning to partake with me in danger. 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance. 
And grew a twenty-years-reraoved thing, 
While one would wink ; denied me mine own purse, 
Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 

Viola. How can this be? 

Duke. When came he to this town? 

Antonio. To-day, my lord ; and for three months 
before. 
No interim, not a minute's vacancy, 
Both day and night did we keep company. 

Duke. Fellow, thy words are madness : 
Three months this youth hath tended upon me ; 
But more of that anon. — Take him aside. 

208 



The duke's hasty dismissal of Antonio's plea was due 
to the fact that Olivia had appeared, and in her pres- 
ence he had neither eyes nor ears for any one else. 
But his jealousy was excited when he observed what lov- 
ing looks she cast upon the page, while she gave him 
nothing but scornful words. In order to punish Olivia 
for her disdain, he threatened to wreak vengeance upon 
the unfortunate Viola, who had, as he thought, taken 
advantage of his confidence to make love to the lady. 
He therefore angrily told Viola : — 

Come, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe in mischief: 
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, 
To spite a raven's heart within a dove. 

Viola. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, 
To do you rest,^ a thousand deaths would die. 

Olivia. Where goes Cesario? 

Viola. After him I love 

More than I love these eyes, more than my life, 
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife. 

It was now Olivia's turn to accuse Viola of falseness, 
she supposing, of course, that the page was the man to 
whom she had been married in the chapel. So she ex- 
claimed : — 

Ay me, detested ! how am I beguiled ! 

Viola. Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong? 
Olivia. Hast thou forgot thyself ? Is it so long ? 
Duke. Come, away. 

Olivia. Whither, my lord ? Cesario, husband, stay. 
Duke. Husband ! 

1 give you ease. 
P 209 



Olivia. Ay, husband; can he that deny? 

Duke. Her husband, sirrah ! 

Viola. No, my lord, not I. 

Olivia, in her distress, now appealed to the priest, 
who had just entered, to confirm her statement concern- 
ing the marriage. The holy man affirmed that, only two 
hours before, he had joined in wedlock the youthful 
page and the fair Olivia. 

Overwhelmed by the disclosure of what seemed like 
most wicked deceit on the part of the page whom he 
had loved and trusted, the duke could only say : — 

Farewell, and take her ; but direct thy feet 
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 

Nothing but the presence of Sebastian could clear up 
this painful misunderstanding. Happily, he appeared 
at this moment, with an apology on his tongue for hav- 
ing hurt Olivia's kinsman, Sir Toby, who, you recollect, 
had been worsted in an encounter with Sebastian, whom 
he had mistaken for Cesario. In his astonishment, the 
duke exclaimed : — 

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons ; 
A natural perspective, that is, and is not. 

Sebastian, on his part, was overjoyed to discover the 
sea-captain among the company, and he hastened to 
say : — 

Antonio, O my dear Antonio ! 

How have the hours racked and tortured me, 

Since I have lost thee ! 

210 



Antonio. How have you made division of yourself ? — 
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian? 

Olivia. Most wonderful ! 

Sebastian. Do I stand there ? I never had a brother ; 
I had a sister. 

Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured : — 
Of charity, what kin are you to me ? 
What countryman ? what name ? what parentage ? 
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek. 
And say — Thrice welcome, drowned Viola ! 

Viola was only too happy to confess her disguise, 
and to reveal her true self. The duke now understood 
much that had been dark to him before. So he said 
to Viola : — 

Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times, 
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 

Viola. And all those sayings will I over-swear; 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul. 
As doth that orbed continent the fire 
That severs day from night. 

Duke. Give me thy hand ; 

And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. 
Your master quits you ; and, for your service done him, 
So much against the mettle of your sex. 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
And since you called me master for so long. 
Here is my hand ; you shall from this time be 
Your master's mistress. 

Olivia cried joyfully : — 

A sister ! you are she. 

211 



And so it came to pass that the gentle page became 
a duchess, and everything ended happily. 

A great while ago the world begun 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 

But that's all one, our play is done, 

And we'll strive to please you every day. 



2X2 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

In old Verona once lived two young gentlemen 
between whom so rare a friendship existed that they 
were generally to be found together. The time came, 
however, when Valentine, filled with a natural desire to 
see the great world, resolved to travel and to visit the 
ducal court at Milan. His friend Proteus would have 
liked to accompany him had he not fallen so deeply in 
love with a fair young lady named Julia, that he could 
not bring himself to go where he could not pursue his 
courtship. 

Proteus tried, in vain, to dissuade Valentine from 
leaving Verona, for the ambitious young man wisely 
argued that travel broadens the views and sharpens the 
wits. He therefore told his friend : — 

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits ; 
Were't not affection chains thy tender days 
To the sweet glances of thy honored love, 
I rather would entreat thy company, 
To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
Than, living dully sluggardized at home, 
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 
215 



But, since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein, 
Even as I would, when I to love begin. 

Proteus. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu ! 
Think on thy Proteus, when thou, haply, seest 
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel : 
Wish me partaker in thy happiness. 
When thou dost meet good hap : and in thy danger, 
If ever danger do environ thee. 
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 

Valentine. And on a love-book pray for my success? 

In Valentine's query wq detect the contempt which 
he, who had never yet been touched by the passion of 
love, felt for what he regarded as weakness in his 
friend. He could not forbear expressing his opinion of 
that folly, as he called it : — 

Love is your master, for he masters you : 
And writers say, as the most forward bud 
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow. 
Even so by love the young and tender wit 
Is turned to folly ; blasting in the bud, 
Losing his verdure even in the prime, 
And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee. 
That art a votary to fond desire? 
Once more adieu. 

Proteus. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan ! 

Valentine. As much to you at home ! and so, fare- 
well. 

Antonio, the father of Proteus, desired that his son 
should benefit by the experience of travel, and his 
desire was brought to a determination to send Proteus 

216 



away, by hearing what his brother, a man of large 
experience, thought of the matter. It was told him : — 

He wondered that your lordship 
Would suffer him [Proteus] to spend his youth at home ; 
While other men of slender reputation. 
Put forth their sons to seek preferment out : 
Some, to the wars, to try their fortune there ; 
Some, to discover islands far away ; 
Some, to the studious universities. 
For any, or for all these exercises. 
He said that Proteus, your son, was meet : 
And did request me to importune you. 
To let him spend his time no more at home. 
Which would be great impeachment to his age, 
In having known no travel in his youth. 

Antonio. Nor need'st thou much importune me to 
that 
Whereon this month I have been hammering. 
I have considered well his loss of time j 
And how he cannot be a perfect man, 
Not being tried and tutored in the world : 
Experience is by industry achieved, 
And perfected by the swift course of time : 
Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him? 

Antonio was reminded of the fact that Valentine 
was at the royal court in attendance upon the emperor, 
where he was receiving the training suitable for a 
gentleman ; engaging in tilts and tournaments, con- 
versing with noblemen, and acquiring the various courtly 
accomplishments. So he decided to send Proteus to 
Milan, in company with some gentlemen who were 
about to set out for the emperor's royal seat. 

217 



Proteus himself was ignorant of his father's inten- 
tions concerning him ; and to leave Verona was quite 
contrary to his inclinations, for, after much coquetting 
and many rebuffs, the lady Julia was now beginning to 
smile on him. It happened that, at the very moment 
when his father was ready to communicate his purpose 
of sending him to Milan, Proteus was engaged in reading 
a love-letter from Julia. Up to this time, Proteus had not 
confided his passion to his father, and when Antonio 

asked — 

What letter are you reading there ? — 

the surprised young lover faltered out a falsehood, say- 
ing : — 

May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two 
Of commendation sent from Valentine, 
Delivered by a friend that came from him. 

Antonio. Lend me the letter ; let me see what news. 

Proteus. There is no news, my lord ; but that he writes 
How happily he lives, how well-beloved, 
And daily graced by the emperor ; 
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 

Antonio. And how stand you affected to his wish ? 

Proteus. As one relying on your lordship's will, 
And not depending on his friendly wish. 

Antonio. My will is something sorted with his wish : 
Muse ^ not that I thus suddenly proceed ; 
For what I will, I will, and there an end. 
I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time 
With Valentinus in the emperor's court ; 
What maintenance he from his friends receives 
Like exhibition - thou shalt have from me. 

1 wonder. 2 allowance. 

218 



To-morrow be in readiness to go : 
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 

Vainly did the young man plead with his father to 
delay a day or two, at least. He was well punished for 
the cowardice that led him to tell the untruth. When 
left alone he thus lamented with himself : — 

Thus have I shunned the fire for fear of burning ; 
And drenched me in the sea where I am drowned : 
I feared to show my father Julia's letter, 
Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; 
And with the vantage of mine own excuse. 
Hath he excepted most against my love. 
O, how this spring of love resembleth 

The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun. 

And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 

At parting, Proteus and Julia exchanged rings and 
pledged themselves to mutual fidelity. Proteus' fare- 
well words were : — 

Here is my hand for my true constancy ; 
And when that hour o'ersHps me in the day, 
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake. 
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 
My father stays my coming; answer not ; 
Julia, farewell. — What ! gone without a word ? 
Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; 
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 

Valentine gained more than he anticipated at the court 
of Milan. Not only was his mind enlarged by travel, 

219 



but his heart found its life's happiness in the love of 
Silvia, daughter of the duke. Her father did not favor 
Valentine's suit, however, for he had other plans for his 
daughter's future. He was very much displeased be- 
cause Silvia was not willing to accept the husband of 
his choice, a young courtier named Thurio. But love 
does not come at the command of another, even though 
that other be one's own parent, and Silvia, who was a 
young w^oman of shrewd perception, discovered that 
Valentine was far superior in mind and true-hearted- 
ness to the gay courtier, Thurio. 

One day when both Valentine and Thurio were pay- 
ing court to the Lady Silvia, the duke announced that 
another young Veronese had arrived at the palace. He 
inquired of Valentine if he knew this compatriot of 
his, the son of Antonio of Verona. Valentine replied : — 

I knew him, as myself; for from our infancy 

We have conversed and spent our hours together : 

And though myself have been an idle truant, 

Omitting the sweet benefit of time 

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, 

Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name, 

]\Iade use and fair advantage of his days ; 

His years but young, but his experience old ; 

His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe ; 

He is complete in feature, and in mind. 

With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 

Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, 
He is as worthy for an empress' love, 
As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. 
Welcome him then according to his worth. 

220 



Such generous words of introduction should have 
been repaid by truth and honor on the part of Proteus. 
It is painful to be obliged to relate that his course at 
Milan was one of base betrayal of friendship and of 
love. For no sooner did he see the Lady Silvia, than 
he transferred his affection to her, although Valentine 
told him that he was her accepted lover, saying : — 

She is mine own ; 
And I as rich in having such a jewel 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

Valentine may have made a mistake in assuming 
superiority over Proteus because his lady-love was the 
daughter of a duke ; telling him that Julia — 

— shall be dignified with this high honor, — 
To bear my lady's train ; lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, 
And, of so great a favor growing proud. 
Disdain to root the summer-sweUing flower, 
And make rough winter everlastingly. 

Proteus. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 

Valentine. Pardon me, Proteus : all I can is nothing 
To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing; 
She is alone. 

At all events, Proteus, then and there, resolved to win 
this paragon of a maiden for himself. This he did re- 
gardless of every obligation of friendship and of loyalty 
in love. The fickle fellow said to himself : — 

Even as one heat another heat expels, 

Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 

221 



So the remembrance of my former love 
Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
Is it her mien, or Valentinus' praise, 
Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
That makes me reasonless, to reason thus? 
She is fair ; and so is Julia, that I love ; — 
That I did love, for now my love is thawed : 
Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, 
Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold ; 
And that I love him not, as I was wont : 
O ! but I love his lady too, too much ; 
And that's the reason I love him so little. 
If I can check my erring love, I will ; 
If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. 

Valentine had no suspicion of the mean treachery 
that was in the mind of Proteus, and he confided to his 
friend's ear that Silvia's father was opposed to his suit, 
and favorable to that of Thurio. Furthermore, he un- 
folded their plans for evading the watchful eye of the 
duke. He had a ladder made of cords which he was to 
throw in at Silvia's window after nightfall, by means of 
which she expected to make her escape and elope with 
him. 

This plan Proteus decided to betray to the duke, in the 
hope that, after Valentine should be sent away from Milan, 
he might worm himself into the good graces of Silvia. 
Proteus did not determine upon this course without some 
twinges of conscience ; for he argued with himself : — 

To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ; 
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; 

222 



To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn : 

And even that power, which gave me first my oath, 

Provokes me to this threefold perjury. 

Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear : 

At first I did adore a twinkling star. 

But now I worship a celestial sun. 

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; 

And he wants wit that wants resolved will 

To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. 

Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 

I to myself am dearer than a friend : 

For love is still most precious in itself: 

And Silvia, witness Heaven, that made her fair ! 

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 

I will forget that Julia is alive. 

Remembering that my love to her is dead ; 

And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, 

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 

I cannot now prove constant to myself, 

Without some treachery used to Valentine. 

In pursuance of his plan to betray his friend, Proteus 
sought an audience with the duke. When the duke 
inquired what he desired, this arch-hypocrite pretended 
to be very loath to speak, but said that his sense of 
duty would not permit him to keep silence. He de- 
clared : — 

My gracious lord, that which I would discover,^ 
The law of friendship bids me to conceal : 
But when I call to mind your gracious favors 
Done to me, undeserving as I am, 

1 reveal. 
223 



My duty pricks me on to utter that 

Which else no worldly good should draw from me. 

Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 

This night intends to steal away your daughter; 

Myself am one made privy to the plot. 

I know you have determined to bestow her 

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 

And should she thus be stolen away from you. 

It would be much vexation to your age. 

Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose 

To cross my friend in his intended drift, 

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 

A pack of sorrows, which w^ould press you down, 

Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 

The duke thanked Proteus for advising him of this 
plan, but said that he had little fear of Valentine's steal- 
ing his daughter, because he had been on the alert, and 
had taken the precaution to have Silvia lodged in an 
upper tower of which he himself kept the key. Proteus 
replied : — 

Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean 
How he her chamber-window will ascend. 
And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 
For which the youthful lover now is gone. 
And this way comes he with it presently ; 
Where, if it pleases you, you may intercept him. 
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly. 
That my discovery be not aimed at ; 
For love of you, not hate unto my friend, 
Hath made me publisher of this pretence. 

Duke. Upon mine honor, he shall never know 
That I had any light from thee of this. 

224 



Valentine soon appeared, wearing a long cloak under 
which he had the rope-ladder concealed. The duke 
delayed him and, by a shrewd pretence, cunningly 
entrapped the unsuspecting lover. He thus began : — 

'Tis not unknown to thee, that I have sought 
To match my friend, Sir Thurio, to my daughter. 

Valentine. I know it well, my lord ; and sure, the 
match 
Were rich and honorable ; besides, the gentleman 
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter : 
Cannot your grace win her to fancy him ? 

Duke. No, trust me ; she is peevish, sullen, 
froward. 
Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty ; 
And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers. 
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; 
And, where I thought the remnant of my age 
Should have been cherished by her child-like duty, 
I now am full resolved to take a wife. 
And turn her out to who will take her in : 
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower ; 
For me and my possessions she esteems not. 

Valentine. What would your grace have me to do 
in this? 

Duke. There is a lady, sir, in Milan, here. 
Whom I affect ; but she is nice, and coy. 
And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 
Now, therefore, I would have thee to my tutor, 
(For long agone I have forgot to court : 
Besides, the fashion of the time is changed ;) 
How, and which way, I may bestow myself, 
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 
Q 225 



Valentine fell into the trap, advising the duke as to 
the most likely means to win a lady's favor, and when 
the duke told him that the lady in question was prom- 
ised by her friends to another gentleman, and that she 
was kept a half-prisoner in a room high above the ground, 
the approach to which was by a shelving roof very dan- 
gerous to climb, Valentine suggested that access to this 
room might be secured by means of a ladder made of 
cords. 

The duke pretended to be greatly pleased with this 
plan, and desired Valentine to get such a ladder for him, 
but he wondered how he could convey the ladder to the 
lady's room without its being seen. Valentine replied : — 

It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it 
Under a cloak, that is of any length. 

Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn ? 

Valentine. Ay, my good lord. 

Duke. Then let me see thy cloak : 

I'll get me one of such another length. 

Valentine. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. 

Then, as if desirous of finding out how to manage it, 
the wily duke insisted upon trying on Valentine's cloak. 
Of course, no gentleman dares refuse the request of 
royalty, so poor Valentine was compelled to assist in the 
discovery of the ladder which he had concealed under 
the garment, and to stand by while the Duke read a 
letter addressed "To Silvia," which was in a fold of the 
cloak. When he came to the words — 

Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee, — 
226 



the duke sternly said : — 

'Tis so : and here's a ladder for the purpose. 

Go, base intruder ! overweening slave ! 

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates ; 

And think my patience, more than thy desert, 

Is privilege for thy departure hence : 

Thank me for this, more than for all the favors 

Which, all too much, I have bestowed on thee.. 

But if thou linger in my territories. 

Longer than swiftest expedition 

Will give thee time to leave our royal court. 

By Heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love 

I ever bore my daughter or thyself. 

Be gone ; I will not hear thy vain excuse. 

But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence. 

The news of Valentine's banishment spread quickly. 
When it came to the ears of Proteus, that two-faced fel- 
low sought his distressed friend, pretending to be all 
sympathy, but really seeking to hasten his departure. 
He brought, however, the news, sweet to the ears of 
Valentine, that Silvia was constant and had pleaded with 
her father for a reversal of his harsh sentence. He 
told how — 

She hath offered to the doom 
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears ; 
Those at her father's churlish feet she tendered ; 
With them, upon her knees, her humble self; 
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them. 
As if but now they waxt^d pale for woe : 
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up. 
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 

227 



Could penetrate her iincompassionate sire ; 
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. 
Besides, her intercession chafed him so, 
When she for thy repeal was suppliant, 
That to close prison he commanded her, 
With many bitter threats of biding there. 

When Valentine lamented his own and Silvia's hard 
fate, Proteus reproved him, saying : — 

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, 
And study help for that which thou lament'st, 
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ; 
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, 
And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence : 
Which being writ to me, shall be dehvered 
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 
The time now serves not to expostulate : 
Come, I'll convey thee through the city gate ; 
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs : 
As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself, 
Regard thy danger, and along with me. 

The duke little understood the depth and constancy 
of Silvia's love, or he would have known that to banish 
Valentine was the very way to prevent the fulfilment of 
his hope to have Thurio as a son-in-law. Since Proteus 
had served him so effectually in exposing the plans of 
Valentine, the duke besought him to use his influence 
to persuade Silvia to look with favor upon Thurio. Pro- 

228 



teus was willing to act as a go-between, because he 
thought that, by this means, he might have opportuni- 
ties of pleading for himself. Being so fickle himself, he 
imagined that Silvia could easily be induced to transfer 
her affection from Valentine to his friend. 

He was, therefore, wholly unprepared for the scorn 
with which Silvia rejected his protestations of love. He 
was stung to the heart by her contemptuous words. He 
was obliged to conclude that : — 

Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 

When I protest true loyalty to her, 

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend : 

When to her beauty I commend my vows, 

She bids me think how I have been forsworn 

In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved : 

But here comes Thurio : now must we to her window, 

And give some evening music to her ear. 

Proteus had advised Thurio to woo the coy Silvia by 
singing love-songs under her window at night. Thurio 
therefore employed some skilful musicians to serenade 
her with this ditty : — 

JV/io is Silvia ? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her ? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she. 

The heave7i such grace did lend her, 

That she might adi?iired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindtiess : 



Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing, 

That Silvia is excelli^ig ; 
She excels each mortal tJmig, 

Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let ns garlands bring. 

When Thurio and the musicians departed, Proteus 
stayed behind, hoping to see and speak with Silvia. In 
this hope he was not disappointed, for Silvia soon 
appeared at the window ; but when Proteus addressed 
her with honeyed words of flattery, she reproached him 
for his falseness, saying : — 

Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man ! 
Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
To be seduced by thy flattery, 
That hast deceived so many with thy vows? 
Return, return, and make thy love amends. 
For me, — by this pale queen of night I swear, 
I am so far from granting thy request. 
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit ; 
And by and by intend to chide myself. 
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 

There was another listener whose presence neither 
Silvia nor Proteus suspected — the forsaken Julia who, 
impatient at the protracted absence of Proteus, had per- 
suaded her maid to disguise her in the garb of a page 
and accompany her to Milan. She was so confident of 
her lover's constancy that she thought that he would 

230 



pardon her seeming immodesty in the joy of their 
meeting. 

Julia reached Milan on the same evening of the sere- 
nade, and on inquiring for Proteus, was conducted to 
the spot where he was with Thurio and the musicians. 
So it happened that she became an eavesdropper, and 
heard his suit to Silvia. Shocked and distressed as she 
was, she was somewhat comforted by learning from 
Silvia's scornful reply that his false suit was rejected. 

Julia's next move was to apply to Proteus for service 
with him, under the assumed name of Sebastian. Al- 
most the first service that Proteus required of her was to 
take to Silvia the very ring which she had given him at 
parting. In giving her this commission, Proteus told 
her : — 

Sebastian, I have entertained thee, 
Partly, that I have need of such a youth. 
That can with some discretion do my business, 
But chiefly for thy face and thy behavior ; 
Which (if my augury deceive me not) 
Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth. 
Go presently, and take this ring with thee, 
Deliver it to Madam Silvia : 
She loved me well, delivered it to me. 

Julia. It seems you loved her not to leave her token : 
She is dead, belike ? 

Proteus. Not so ; I think she lives. 

Julia. Alas ! 

Proteus. Why dost thou cry, alas ? 

Julia. I cannot choose but pity her. 

Proteus. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? 

Julia. Because, methinks, that she loved you as well 

231 



As you do love your lady Silvia : 
She dreams on him that has forgot her love ; 
You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
'Tis pity, love should be so contrary ; 
And thinking on it makes me cry, alas ! 

Proteus. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
This letter. — Tell my lady, 
I claim the promise of her heavenly picture.* 
Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 
Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. 

Although Julia's heart was pierced by the knowledge 
of the falseness of her former lover, yet her own love 
for him was of that quality that she was willing to 
further his wishes, even at the cost of her own happi- 
ness. As she left him with the ring, — her own love- 
gift, — she thus argued with herself : — 

How many women would do such a message ? 
Alas, poor fool ! why do I pity him 
That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
Because he loves her, he despiseth me ; 
Because I love him, I must pity him. 
This ring I gave him, when he parted from me, 
To bind him to remember my good will : 
And now am I (unhappy messenger) 
To plead for that, which I would not obtain ; 
To carry that, which I would have refused ; 
To praise his faith, which I would have dispraised. 
I am my master's true confirmed love ; 
But cannot be true servant to my master. 
Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 
Yet I will woo for him ; but yet so coldly. 
As, Heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. 

232 



The interview with Silvia proved less painful than 
Julia had feared ; for that lady rejected the ring which 
she knew had been given Proteus by Julia, of whom he 
had talked continually when he first came to Milan. 
She also expressed great pity for her who was being so 
heartlessly forsaken by the fickle Proteus. 

The more efforts were made to draw Silvia's heart 
from her true lover, the more determined she was to 
elude those who were watching her and to escape to 
rejoin Valentine. She persuaded one of the attendants 
at the court, Eglamour by name, to assist her to carry 
out her plan. Silvia had learned that her exiled lover 
had betaken himself to a neighboring forest, and that 
he had been adopted as leader of a band of outlaws, 
who, like Robin Hood's merry men, were living by their 
wits, and by what they could filch from passing travel- 
lers. Eglamour was to accompany her in her search 
for her faithful lover. They were to meet at the cell of 
a friar where Silvia was accustomed to go for confes- 
sion. 

Eglamour arrived first at the meeting-place near the 
abbey. Looking about for the lady, he said to him- 
self : — 

The sun begins to gild the western sky : 
And now it is about the very hour 
That Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me. 
She will not fail ; for lovers break not hours, 
Unless it be to come before their time ; 
So much they spur their expedition. 
See where she comes : Lady, a happy evening ! 
Silvia. Amen, amen ! go on, good Eglamour, 

233 



Out at the postern by the abbey-wall ; 
I fear I am attended by some spies. 

Eglamour. Fear not ; the forest is not three 
leagues off: 
If we recover that, we are sure enough. 

Silvia was not mistaken in thinking that her move- 
ments were being watched. She had not been gone 
long before the duke sought Thurio and Proteus to ask 
if they had seen either Sir Eglamour or Silvia. Upon 
receiving a negative reply, he immediately guessed : — 

Why, then, she's fled unto that peasant Valentine, 

And Eglamour is in her company. 

'Tis true ; for Friar Lawrence met them both. 

As he in penance wandered through the forest : 

Him he knew well, and guessed that it was she ; 

But, being masked, he was not sure of it : 

Besides, she did intend confession 

At Patrick's cell this even ; and there she was not : 

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. 

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 

But mount you presently ; and meet with me 

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 

That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled. 

Despatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. 

As the duke left them to make hasty preparations 
for following Silvia, the others, each in turn, secretly 
remarked to themselves : — 

Thurio. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl. 
That flies her fortune when it follows her : 
I'll after ; more to be revenged on Eglamour, 
Than for the love of reckless Silvia. 

234 



Proteus. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love, 
Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. 

Julia. And I will follow, more to cross that love, 
Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. 

Meantime, the exiled Valentine was growing so ac- 
customed to the life of an outlaw that he could even 
take pleasure in its loneliness. He was surprised, as 
he said, to find : — ■ 

How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 

This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : 

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any. 

And to the nightingale's complaining notes 

Tune my distresses, and record my woes. 

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless ; 

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, 

And leave no memory of what it was ! 

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia ; 

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain ! 

Just as he said the last words, he heard the sound of 
loud shouting. Wondering, he exclaimed : — 

What hallooing and what stir, is this to-day? 
These are my mates, that make their wills their law, 
Have some unhappy passenger in chase : 
They love me well ; yet I have much to do, 
To keep them from uncivil outrages. 

Quickly concealing himself behind a tree, Valentine 
waited to learn what would follow. Imagine his aston- 
ishment when he beheld Silvia approaching, accompa- 

235 



nied by Proteus and a page. Indignation succeeded 
astonishment however, when he heard Proteus making 
love to Silvia, claiming her love as a reward for having 
rescued her from the outlaws. But Silvia never swerved 
from her allegiance to Valentine. She replied to Pro- 
teus : — 

Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 
I would have been a breakfast to the beast^, 
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 
O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 
Whose life's as tender to me as my soul ; 
And full as much (for more there cannot be) 
I do detest false perjured Proteus : 
Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend ! 
Proteus. In love, who respects friend? 
Silvia. All men but Proteus. 

Valentine could no longer restrain himself. The 
treachery of the man whom he had trusted as a friend 
excited his wrath to that degree that he discovered him- 
self, and in stinging words denounced Proteus, saying: — 

Thou common friend, that's without faith or love ; 
Thou hast beguiled my hopes ; nought but mine eye 
Could have persuaded me : Now I dare not say 
I have one friend alive ; thou wouldst disprove me. 
Who should be trusted when one's own right hand 
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, 
I am sorry I must never trust thee more. 
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
The private wound is deepest : O time most accursed ! 
'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst. 

236 



Valentine's reproaches awoke the conscience that had 
so long slept in Proteus' bosom, and he pleaded : — 

Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 
I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer 
As e'er I did commit. 

It was not in Valentine's nature to harbor ill-will, and 
he received his friend's remorseful confession in a spirit 
of forgiveness, saying : — . 

Who by repentance is not satisfied 

Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleased ; 

By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased. 

Seeing that Proteus seemed sincerely penitent, Julia 
was emboldened to make herself known to the company. 
She addressed herself to Proteus : — 

Julia. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, 
And entertained them deeply in her heart : 
O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush ! 
Be thou ashamed, that I have took upon me 
Such an immodest raiment ; if shame live 
In a disguise of love : 
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 
Women to change their shapes, than men their minds. 

Proteus. Than men their minds ! 'tis true ; O Heaven ! 
were man 
But constant, he were perfect : that one error 
Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all th' sins 
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins : 
What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy 
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye? 

237 



Just as their reconciliation was complete, some of 
the band of outlaws appeared bringing the duke and 
Thurio as captives. Thurio at once claimed Silvia, but 
when Valentine threatened him with swift punishment 
if he dared to touch her against her will, Thurio dis- 
claimed any wish to interfere with their purposes. The 
duke, who despised cowardice, was so disgusted with 
this yielding on the part of the man whom he had chosen 
for a son-in-law that he declared : — 

The more degenerate and base art thou, 

To make such means for her as thou hast done, 

And leave her on such slight conditions. — 

Now, by the honor of my ancestry, 

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 

And think thee worthy of an empress' love ! 

Know then, I here forget all former griefs, 

Cancel all grudge, repeal ^ thee home again. — 

Plead a new state in thy unrivalled merit, 

To which I thus subscribe, — Sir Valentine, 

Thou art a gentleman, and well derived ; 

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. 

In the joy of his own happiness, Valentine did not 
neglect those who had been kind to him, — the brave 
outlaws of the forest, — men who, for light offences, had 
been banished. He therefore asked this boon of the 
duke : — 

These banished men, that I have kept withal, 

Are men endued with worthy qualities ; 

Forgive them what they have committed here, 

And let them be recalled from their exile : 

1 recall. 
238 



They are reformed, civil, full of good. 
And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 
Duke. Thou hast prevailed ; I pardon them, 
and thee ; 
Dispose of them, as thou know'st their deserts. 
Come, let us go ; we will include all jars 
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. 

Valentine told Proteus that his penance must be to 
hear a rehearsal of his traitorous falsehoods. That 
done, he promised : — 

Our day of marriage shall be yours ; 

One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. 



239 



HAMLET 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 

Many years ago, the University of Wittenberg in Ger- 
many, then a famous seat of learning, numbered among 
its students Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, who was deeply 
interested in the study of philosophy. Hamlet was a 
high-minded youth, nobly sincere, and of an affectionate 
disposition. One day his studies were sadly interrupted 
by news of the sudden death of his father, King Ham- 
let, who had died, it was said, from the bite of a poison- 
ous serpent that had stung him as he lay sleeping in 
the garden of the palace. 

Hamlet deeply reverenced his father, who had seemed 
to him the ideal of manly virtue and kingly majesty. 
Overwhelmed with a sense of irreparable loss, he said 
of his father to Horatio, a friend and fellow-student : — 

He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Such being Hamlet's high estimate of his father, we 
can easily understand how shocked he was, when his 
mother, Queen Gertrude, married his Uncle Claudius, 
within two months after the death of her former hus- 
band. In so doing, she elevated Claudius to the throne, 
for she had been joint ruler of Denmark, and in those 

243 



days, the king's son was not necessarily the successor to 
the kingship. 

Hamlet had never liked his uncle, and this hasty 
marriage made him very suspicious of the man who 
had contrived to put himself in his father's place. 
Hamlet loved his mother tenderly, and he grieved bit- 
terly over the fickleness that had led her to solace her- 
self so quickly in the love of another husband. And 
when she even went so far as to reprove him for con- 
tinuing to mourn, and urged him to look merry and 
show himself friendly with his uncle-father, he longed 
to die and leave a world that seemed false and wicked 
to his grief-stricken soul. 

Claudius incensed him still further by telling him that 
he was rebellious against the will of God in grieving so. 
He begged Hamlet to remain at court and to accept his 
love as a father's, saying : — 

'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, 
To give these mourning duties to your father : 
But, you must know, your father lost a father ; 
That father lost, lost his ; but to persever 
In obstinate condolement is a course 
Of impious stubbornness ; 'tis unmanly grief; 
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, 
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, 
An understanding simple and unschooled. 
We pray you, throw to earth 
This unprevailing woe, and think of us 
As of a father ; for let the world take note, 
You are the most immediate to our throne, 
And with no less nobility of love 

244 



Than that which dearest father bears his son 
Do I impart toward you. For your intent 
In going back to school in Wittenberg, 
It is most retrograde ^ to our desire ; 
And we beseech you, bend you to remain 
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 
Our chiefest courtier, cousin,- and our son. 

Although Hamlet felt that his uncle's professions 
of love were insincere, his sense of filial duty was so 
true that, when his mother added — 

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet : 

I pray thee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg, — 

he consented to remain. The king chose to regard his 
consent as an evidence of kind feeling toward himself, 
and proceeded to celebrate the occasion in accordance 
with the Danish custom, by a drinking feast. 

When Hamlet was left alone, he could no longer 
restrain his bitter grief, but burst out : — 

That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ! nay, not so much, not two : 
So excellent a king ; that was, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr ; so loving to my mother 
That he might not beteem ^ the winds of heaven 
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 
Must I remember ? why, she would hang on him, 
As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on ; and yet, within a month — • 

Let me not think on't — Frailty, thy name is woman ! — 
A little month, — why she, even she — 
O God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 

1 contrary. 2 kinsman. 3 allow. 

245 



Would have mourned longer — married with my uncle, 

My father's brother, but no more like my father 

Than I to Hercules. Within a month? 

It is not, nor it cannot come to good ; — 

But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 

Immediately upon ascending the throne, Claudius 
began to make active preparations for war. This gave 
great offence to some army officers, who could not un- 
derstand why they should be required to keep as strict 
watch as if an enemy were already approaching, when 
they had not heard of any declaration of war. 

All sorts of rumors were afloat, the most astonishing 
of which was that the ghost of the late king had been 
seen clad in full armor, walking upon the battlements 
of the royal castle. This was taken to be an evil omen, 
and the officers who claimed to have seen the ghost, 
thought it their duty to tell young Hamlet. 

Horatio, who had now come to the capital, ventured to 
broach the matter to Hamlet, telling him that, on two 
separate occasions, when Marcellus and Bernardo were 
officers of the watch, just at midnight, — 

A figure like your father, 
Arm^d at point exactly, cap-a-p^. 
Appears before them, and with solemn march 
Goes slow and stately by them : thrice he walked 
By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distilled 
Almost to jelly with the act of fear, 
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me 
In dreadful secrecy impart they did ; 
And I with them the third night kept the watch : 

246 



Where, as they had delivered, both in time, 
Form of the thing, each word made true and good, 
The apparition comes. I knew your father ; 
These hands are not more hke. 

Hamlet charged his friends to keep absolute silence 
about what they had seen, and made an appointment to 
watch with them the following night, so that, in case 
the ghost should again appear, he might learn, if pos- 
sible, the meaning of these visitations. 

In those days, it was believed that the spirits of the 
dead would return to the earth, if their coming could be 
the means of causing justice to be done where some 
great wrong had been committed. Horatio's story 
made Hamlet still more suspicious, and he said to 
himself : — 

My father's spirit in arms ! all is not well ; 
I doubt ^ some foul play : would the night were come ! 
Till then sit still, my soul ; foul deeds will rise. 
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. 

Midnight found Hamlet, in company with Horatio 
and Marcellus, on the platform before the castle, where 
the ghost was reported to walk. As they stood there, the 
silence of the sharp night air was broken by the report 
of a cannon, and the sound of trumpets. These were 
accompaniments of the king's wassail, or drinking feast, 
with which he had said that he should celebrate Ham- 
let's consenting to remain at home. Horatio desired to 
know whether this was customary, and Hamlet told 
him : — 

1 suspect. 
247 



Ay, marry ^ is't ; 
But to my mind, though I am native here 
And to the manner born, it is a custom 
More honored in the breach than the observance. 

From this reply, we see that Hamlet was more re- 
fined in his tastes than the majority of his countrymen. 
But even as he spoke, Horatio exclaimed : — 

Look, my lord, it comes ! — 

and Hamlet turned to see the figure of his dead father 
advancing. Almost beside himself with emotion, the 
prince knew not whether the apparition boded good or 
ill, but he cried out in tones of agonized entreaty : — 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! — 

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, 

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, 

Be thy intents wicked or charitable. 

Thou comest in such a questionable shape 

That I will speak to thee : I'll call thee Hamlet, 

King, father ; royal Dane, O, answer me ! 

Let me not burst in ignorance ; but tell 

Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, 

Have burst their cerements ; why the sepulchre, 

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned. 

Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws, 

To cast thee up again. What may this mean, 

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 

Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon. 

Making night hideous. 

Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do? 

lAn old expression, equivalent to "By Mary," but here meaning, cer- 
tainly. 

248 



As he spoke the last word, it seemed to Hamlet that 
the spirit beckoned to him, as if it desired to speak with 
him alone. Hamlet had no fear for his own safety, but 
his friends begged him not to follow, lest he might be 
led into some awful danger. Horatio urged : — 

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, 
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff 
That beedes o'er his base into the sea. 
And there assume some other horrible form, 
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, 
And draw you into madness ? think of it ; 
The very place puts toys ^ of desperation, 
Without more motive, into every brain 
That looks so many fathoms to the sea 
And hears it roar beneath. 

Nothing could deter Hamlet from obeying the evi- 
dent wish of his father's spirit, and throwing off his 
friends' detaining hands, he hastened to a remote part 
of the battlements whither the ghost had preceded him. 
There a tale of horror was unfolded to Hamlet's listen- 
ing ear. The spirit entreated him : — 

List, list, O, list ! 
If thou didst ever thy dear father love, — 
Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther. 
Hamlet. Murther ! 

Ghost. Murther most foul, as in the best it is ; 
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 

Now, Hamlet, hear : 
'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, 
A serpent stung me ; so the whole ear of Denmark 

1 freaks. 
249 



Is by a forged process of my death 
Rankly abused ; but know, thou noble youth, 
The serpent that did sting thy father's hfe 
Now wears his crown. 

Hamlet. O my prophetic soul ! 
My uncle ! 

The ghost further told Hamlet that Claudius had 
stolen upon him while he slept, and had poured a deadly 
poison into his ears — a poison that infused itself into the 
blood instantly, producing immediate death. Further- 
more, this false brother had so fascinated Queen Gertrude 
by his evil power that she had transferred her affections 
to him even during his own life. This accounted for 
her marrying Claudius so soon after the death of King 
Hamlet. The ghost charged Hamlet, however, not to 
harm his mother, but to leave her to heaven and the 
stings of her own conscience. As morning dawned, 
the spirit vanished, with the parting words : — 

Adieu, adieu ! Hamlet, remember me. 

The horrible disclosure put Hamlet in a frenzy of 
passion. Now he knew why his whole soul had risen 
in rebellion when the new king had called him *' son," 
and had reproached him for continuing to grieve for 
the loss of his father. He realized that, — 

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. 

He felt that he had lived through years of awful expe- 
rience in a few minutes. The ghost's solemn charge 
rang in his ears, and he resolved to put aside all plans 

250 



for personal happiness, in order to devote himself with 
a single mind to the sacred duty laid upon him. 

In those early days, before courts of law were estab- 
lished, the nearest male relative of a murdered man was 
bound by custom to avenge the murder. But how could 
Hamlet prove the truth of his suspicion, which had been 
so strangely confirmed ? His mind acted quickly, and 
knowing that it was of the first importance to prevent 
his uncle from guessing that he was under suspicion, 
Hamlet made his friends take a solemn oath not to 
reveal by the least hint what had occurred that night, 
nor to seem to understand the cause of any peculiar 
actions on his part ; and he put their loyalty to a very 
severe test by refusing to gratify their curiosity to learn 
what had been divulged in his interview with the ghost. 

Highly as he revered true philosophy, Hamlet had 
now learned that philosophy cannot explain all profound 
experience. So he told Horatio : — 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy ; — 

and in bitterness of spirit, he murmured : — 

The time is out of joint ; — O cursed spite, 
That ever I was born to set it right ! — 

so unequal did he feel to the task that was laid upon 
him. 

When Hamlet resolved to devote himself to avenging 
his father, he was perfectly conscious that this resolu- 
tion involved the renouncing of all thought of marriage 
with the fair Ophelia, to whom his heart's love was 

251 



given. Ophelia was the daughter of Polonius, the aged 
lord chamberlain, and a sweet, gentle nature was hers. 
Her father and her brother Laertes — her mother was 
not living — thought that, since Hamlet's rank was so 
far above theirs, he could not be sincere in his profes- 
sions of love for Ophelia. So they told her that the 
prince was trifling with her affection, and commanded 
her to repel his attentions. 

PoLONius. From this time 

Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence. 
For Lord Hamlet, 

Believe so much in him, that he is young, 
And with a larger tether may he walk 
Than may be given you : in few, Ophelia, 
Do not believe his vows. This is for all ; 
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, 
Have you so slander ^ any moment's leisure, 
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet : 
Look to't, I charge you ; come your ways. 

Ophelia. I shall obey, my lord. 

Hamlet knew nothing of this, and the sudden change 
in Ophelia's manner toward him confirmed his belief in 
woman's frailty and fickleness, which had been excited 
by his mother's inconstancy. He had already decided 
to adopt the wild manner and strange speech of one 
whose mind is unbalanced, thinking that, under the 
mask of insanity, he might find a way of satisfying him- 
self of the king's guilt. For, if Claudius should be led 
to think that Hamlet's melancholy had developed into 
madness, he might be thrown off his guard. 

1 disgrace. 
252 



When, therefore, Ophelia repulsed him in obedience 

to her father's command, Hamlet tried to create the 

impression that her unkindness had caused him to lose 

his reason. He had always been scrupulously neat in 

his personal habits ; so when he suddenly appeared 

before her one day with his clothing all disordered, and 

with a wild look in his eyes, Ophelia hastened to her 

father to tell him how affrighted she had been by 

Hamlet's strange conduct. Polonius at once surmised 

that the prince was losing his mind, and he said to his 

daughter: — 

Mad for thy love ? 

Ophelia. My lord, I do not know ; 
But truly, I do fear it. 

PoLONius. What said he? 

Ophelia. He took me by the wrist and held me hard ; 
Then goes he to the length of all his arm, 
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow, 
He falls to such perusal of my face 
As he would draw it. Long stayed he so ; 
At last, a little shaking of mine arm, 
And thrice his head thus waving up and down. 
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound 
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk 
And end his being : that done, he lets me go ; 
And, with his head over his shoulder turned. 
He seemed to find his way without his eyes ; 
For out o' doors he went without their help. 
And, to the last, bended their light on me. 

PoLONius. Come, go with me ; I will go seek the king. 
This is the very ecstasy of love, 
Whose violent property fordoes itself 
And leads the will to desperate undertakings, 

253 



As oft as any passion under heaven 

That does afflict our natures. I am sorry, — 

What, have you given him any hard words of late? 

Ophelia. No, my good lord, but, as you did command, 
I did repel his letters, and denied 
His access to me. 

PoLONius. That hath made him mad. 

I am sorry that with better heed and judgment 
I had not quoted ^ him. I feared he did but trifle, 
And meant to wreck thee. 

The king betrayed great eagerness to hear what 
Polonius had to tell, when he declared that he thought 
that he had found the cause of Hamlet's lunacy. Po- 
lonius was a shrewd courtier, and he took care to impress 
the king with a deep sense of his own loyalty which, he 
hinted, had prevented his being over-ambitious for his 
daughter. When Claudius inquired how Ophelia had 
received Hamlet's professions of love, he replied : — 

What might you. 
Or my dear majesty your queen here, think, 
If I had played the desk or table-book. 
Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb. 
Or looked upon this love with idle sight ; 
What might you think ? No, I went round to work, 
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak : 
" Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star ; 
This must not be : " and then I precepts gave her, 
That she should lock herself from his resort, 
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice ; 
And he, repulsed — a short tale to make — 

1 marked, observed. 
254 



Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, 
Thence to watch, thence into a weakness, 
Thence to a lightness, and by this declension 
Into the madness wherein now he raves, 
And all we mourn for. 

This wordy harangue did not convince the king, who 
had his own reasons for thinking that Hamlet had 
something else on his mind. He desired to have an 
opportunity of testing the truth of the old courtier's 
conclusions. Polonius then proposed to contrive an 
interview between Hamlet and Ophelia, at which he 
and Claudius should be present, but concealed behind 
the tapestry curtains with which the walls of the room 
were hung. 

To this plan the king consented. Ophelia herself 
had no voice in the matter, but she was led to believe 
that she might, in this way, be instrumental in discover- 
ing the real cause of Hamlet's deep-seated melancholy, 
and, perhaps, in restoring him to himself. Otherwise, 
her modesty would have rebelled against so far violating 
what she had been taught to consider true maidenly 
reserve, as to seek Hamlet in a part of the castle where 
he was in the habit of taking exercise. 

In order that she might seem to be occupied, Polo- 
nius bade her : — 

Read on this book ; 
That show of such an exercise may color 
Your loneliness. 

Hamlet soon appeared, but so absorbed was he in his 
own thoughts that he did not, at first, notice the pres- 

255 



ence of Ophelia. His soul was so deeply oppressed by 
the heavy weight of the difficult task, which he had 
not yet felt himself equal to perform, that he longed to 
die, and escape the painful duty of avenging the murder 
of his father. He mused aloud : — 

To be, or not to be, — that is the question : 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 

And by opposing end them? To die, — to sleep, — 

No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep, — 

To sleep ! perchance to dream ! ay, there's the rub ; 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause : there's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life ; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay. 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? ^ who would fardels ^ bear. 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life 

But that the dread of something after death, 

The undiscovered country from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have 

Than fly to others that we know not of ? 

1 a small dagger. 2 burdens. 

256 



Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 
And enterprises of great pith and moment 
With this regard their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. 

At this moment Hamlet discovered Ophelia. He 
saluted her gravely and with a tender courtesy, but 
something in her manner, combined with the surprise 
of finding her there, led him to suspect that others 
might be listening to their conversation. This suspicion 
caused an instantaneous change in his manner, and led 
him to speak so harshly to her that Ophelia prayed 
that he whom she loved might be restored to his own 
gentle self. In her distress she moaned : — 

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 

The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword ; 

The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 

The glass of fashion and the mould of form, 

The observed of all observers, quite, quite down ! 

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 

That sucked the honey of his music vows. 

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason. 

Like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and harsh ; 

That unmatched form and feature of blown youth 

Blasted with ecstasy : O woe is me. 

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! 

The king, who had listened intently to Hamlet's 
words, instead of thinking with Polonius that disappoint- 
ment in love was the cause of Hamlet's lunacy, doubted 
the fact of his madness. Hamlet's parting words to 
s 257 



Ophelia had alarmed him greatly, for his guilty con- 
science made him fear lest Hamlet should suspect him. 
So when he heard Hamlet say : — 

We will have no more marriages : those that are married 
already, all but one, shall live ; the rest shall keep as they are. 
To a nunnery, go. — 

he said to Polonius : — 

Love ! his affections do not that way tend ; 
Nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little. 
Was not like madness. There's something in his soul 
'. O'er which his melancholy sits on brood, 

And I do doubt ^ the hatch and the disclose 

Will be some danger ; which for to prevent, 

I have in quick determination 

Thus set it down : he shall with speed to England, 

For the demand of our neglected tribute. 

Haply the seas and countries different 

With variable objects shall expel 

This something-settled matter in his heart. 

Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus 

From fashion of himself. What think you on't ? 

Polonius could not bring himself to admit that he 
might be mistaken in his opinion, but persisted in main- 
taining that Hamlet's disturbance of mind was due to 
neglected love. He desired to have one more attempt 
made to induce Hamlet to confess what was troubling 
him ; so he proposed that the queen-mother should talk 
with her son, hoping that he might open his heart to 
her. But, fearing that the mother might not report all 
that Hamlet might say, the cunning old lord chamber- 

1 suspect. 
258 



lain said that he would again listen behind the tapes- 
try. 

Before this, however, the king's anxiety to ferret out 
the cause of Hamlet's strange behavior — ''transforma- 
tion,'' he called it, — had led him to summon to court 
two of Hamlet's boyhood companions, Rosencrantz and 
Guildenstern, At their coming, he told them — 

The need we have to use you did provoke 

Our hasty sending. Something have you heard 

Of Hamlet's transformation \ so I call it, 

Sith ^ nor the exterior nor the inward man 

Resembles that it was. What it should be, 

More than his father's death, that thus hath put him 

So much from the understanding of himself, 

I cannot dream of. I entreat you both, 

That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court 

Some little time ; so by your companies 

To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather. 

So much as from occasion you may glean. 

Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus, 

That, opened, lies within our remedy. 

Guildenstern. Heavens make our presence and our 
practices 
Pleasant and helpful to him ! 

Feeling the necessity of being constantly on his 
guard, Hamlet grew suspicious of every unusual cir- 
cumstance, and when he was approached so unexpect- 
edly by these young men, he at once surmised that they 
had been sent for to spy upon him. But it was his habit 
to be kind and courteous, and after contriving to get them 

1 since. 
259 



to admit that they had been sent for by the king and 
queen, with a dehcate considerateness, he refrained from 
leading them to betray the confidence of the royal pair, 
by himself telUng them the reason why, saying : — 

I have of late lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exer- 
cises ; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that 
this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory ; 
this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'er- 
hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, 
— why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pesti- 
lent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man ! 
how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculty ! in form and 
moving how express and admirable ! in action how hke an 
angel ! in apprehension how like a god ! the beauty of the 
world ! the paragon of animals ! And yet, to me, what is this 
quintessence of dust? man dehghts not me; no, nor woman 
neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. 

The young men disavowed having any such thought, 
but told Hamlet that, if he had lost all deHght in man, 
they feared that he would not enjoy the entertainment 
which was about to be given to the members of the 
court, by a company of actors whom they had met on 
the way, and had invited to come thither. Hamlet was 
fond of the drama, and he welcomed the players in 
true, gentlemanly fashion when they appeared, as they 
did soon after. 

At Hamlet's request, these players rehearsed before 
him a scene from a favorite play of his, in which the 
leading actor portrayed with powerful pathos the grief 
of Hecuba, queen of Troy, at sight of her husband. King 

260 



Priam, hacked to death by the sword of a hostile Greek. 
Hamlet was deeply moved by the recital, and the thought 
occurred to him that, if he could have these players enact 
a play in which there should be a scene corresponding 
in every detail to the story told by his father's ghost 
concerning the manner of his own death, Claudius 
might betray his guilt by some word or uncontrollable 
agitation. For Hamlet could not bring himself to pro- 
ceed against his uncle without some other evidence of 
his guilt than the revelation of a ghost. He was too 
honorable to seek revenge merely on suspicion. But 
he reflected : — 

I have heard 
That guilty creatures sitting at a play 
Have by the very cunning of the scene 
Been struck so to the soul that presently 
They have proclaimed their malefactions ; 
For murther, though it have no tongue, will speak 
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players 
Play something like the murther of my father 
Before mine uncle : I'll observe his looks ; 
I'll tent ^ him to the quick : if he but blench, 
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen 
May be the devil ; and the devil hath power 
To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
Out of my w*eakness and my melancholy. 
As he is very potent with such spirits, 
Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
More relative ^ than this ; the play's the thing 
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. 

1 probe. 2 conclusive. 

261 



We see from this self-communing how fearful Hamlet 
was lest his deep melancholy, together with his hatred 
of his uncle, should lead him to commit an act of awful 
injustice. He had already taken Horatio into his con- 
fidence, because he knew him to be a man of incorrupti- 
ble honor, and absolutely disinterested in his friendship 
for himself. He now went to Horatio to ask him to 
watch his uncle during the play, and help him to judge 
whether he was right in his suspicion. He told Hora- 
tio : — 

There is a play to-night before the king ; 
One scene of it comes near the circumstance 
Which I have told thee of my father's death. 
I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, 
Even with the very comment of thy soul 
Observe mine uncle ; if his occulted guilt 
Do not itself unkennel in one speech, 
It is a damned ghost that we have seen, 
And my imaginations are as foul 
As Vulcan's stithy.-^ Give him heedful note ; 
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face. 
And after we will both our judgments join 
In censure ^ of his seeming. 

Hamlet was happy in having such a friend as Horatio, 
for a prince cannot always find one who is perfectly 
sincere and unselfish. In this talk with Horatio, Hamlet 
told him why he trusted him sp completely : — 

Hamlet. Since my dear soul was mistress of her 
choice. 
And could of men distinguish, her election 

1 forge. 2 judgment. 

262 



Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been 

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, 

A man that fortune's buffets and rewards 

Hath ta'en with equal thanks : and blest are those 

Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled 

That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger 

To sound what stop she please. Give me that man 

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 

In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 

As I do thee. 

The name of the play which Hamlet had selected was 
**The Murther of Gonzago." By inserting a few lines, 
he had made it agree with the account given by the 
ghost. It was presented before the entire court, Hamlet 
reclining at the feet of Ophelia, from which spot he 
could easily watch the king. 

The play opened with mutual protestations of ardent 
affection between a king and queen who had been 
married thirty years. The player-king was very poetical, 
describing their happiness thus : — 

Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round 
Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground. 
And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen 
About the world have times twelve thirties been. 
Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands 
Unite commutual in most sacred bands. 

The player-queen responded with extravagant vows 
of constancy in life and in death, saying that she could 
never be induced, under any circumstances, to marry a 
second time, which declaration caused Queen Gertrude 
to say : — 

263 



The lady protests too much, methinks. 

As the play proceeded, Claudius began to show signs 
of uneasiness, asking Hamlet if he had heard the argu- 
ment, or plot, of the drama, and if there was anything 
offensive in it. Hamlet replied with deep meaning, — • 

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest ; no offence i' the world ; 

and as the player poured the poison into the ear of the 
sleeping player-king, he added significantly : — 

- You shall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of 
Gonzago's wife. 

The guilty king could endure the sight no longer, but 
rose in great excitement, calling for lights, and hastily 
left the apartment, followed by all the spectators except 
Hamlet and Horatio. Thoroughly convinced now of 
the truth of his suspicion, Hamlet exclaimed : — 

O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand 
pound. Didst perceive ? 

Horatio. Very well, my lord, 

Hamlet. Upon the talk of the poisoning? 

Horatio. I did very well note him. 

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whom the queen had 
sent to tell Hamlet that she desired to speak with him in 
her own apartment, for she was amazed at his behavior. 

Hamlet had, ere this, discovered that Rosencrantz 
and Guildenstern, while pretending to be his friends, 
were trying to worm his secret from him. He now 
forced a recorder, or flute, into the hand of Guildenstern,, 

264 



and insisted that he should play upon the instrument. 
When Guildenstern protested that he did not know how 
to play, Hamlet urged : — 

I do beseech you. 

Guildenstern. I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Hamlet. 'Tis as easy as lying ; govern these ventages with 
your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it 
will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the 
stops. 

Guildenstern. But these cannot I command to any utter- 
ance of harmony ; I have not the skill. 

Then Hamlet burst out in righteous indignation : — 

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me ! 
You would play upon me ; you would seem to know my stops ; 
you would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you would sound 
me from my lowest note to the top of my compass : and there 
is much music, excellent voice in this little organ ; yet cannot 
you make it speak. Do you think I am easier to be played on 
than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you 
can fret me, you cannot play upon me. 

At this moment Polonius entered to tell Hamlet that 
his mother desired to speak with him immediately. 
Hamlet knew that he could play upon Polonius, who 
still believed him insane. So he questioned the lord 
chamberlain : — 

Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel ? 
Polonius. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. 
Hamlet. Methinks it is like a weasel. 
Polonius. It is backed like a weasel. 
Hamlet. Or like a whale ? 

265 



PoLONius. Very like a whale. 

Hamlet. Then will I come to my mother by and by. — I 
will come by and by. 

PoLONius. I will say so. 

Hamlet. By and by is easily said. — Leave me, friends. 

Hamlet felt that he must be alone a few minutes in 
order that he might nerve himself for the painful inter- 
view with his mother. He was resolved to compel her 
to see her wrong, which, so far, she seemed to be unable 
to do, and he felt that he must set a guard upon him- 
self, lest he should be tempted to use violence. So he 
charged himself : — 

Soft ! now to my mother. 

heart, lose not thy nature ; 
Let me be cruel, not unnatural. 

1 will speak daggers to her, but use none ; 
How in my words soever she be shent/ 

To give them seals never, my soul, consent ! 

Looking upon the dramatic imitation of his own guilty 
deed had a two-fold effect upon the king. It showed 
him that Hamlet suspected him, and that determined 
him to get Hamlet out of the country as quickly as 
possible. He summoned Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, 
and told them : — 

I your commission will forthwith despatch, 
And he to England shall along with you. 
The terms of our estate may not endure 
Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow 
Out of his lunacies. 
Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage ; 

1 shamed, reproached. 
266 



For we will fetters put upon this fear, 
Which now goes too free-footed. 

The sight had also aroused his conscience to remorse. 
Alone, in his own chamber, he tried to pray, but he 
knew that he could not make a sincere prayer, as long 
as he continued to live falsely. He realized that, to 
obtain forgiveness of Heaven, he must confess openly, 
and give up the fruits of his crime. In agony of spirit, 
he moaned : — 

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven ; 

It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, 

A brother's murther ! What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 

To wash it white as snow ? 

But, O, what form of prayer 

Can serve my turn? " Forgive me my foul murther? " 

That cannot be ; since I am still possessed 

Of those effects for which I did the murther, 

My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 

May one be pardoned and retain the offence? 

In the corrupted currents of this world 

Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, 

And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the law ; but 'tis not so above : 

There is no shuffling, there the action lies 

In his true nature, and we ourselves compelled 

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults 

To give in evidence. W^hat then? what rests ?^ 

Try what repentance can : what can it not? 

Yet what can it when one cannot repent? 



267 



Falling upon his knees, Claudius endeavored to frame 
a petition, but he was honest enough to acknowledge 
that words without heart-repentance are vain, so he 
arose, unrepentant still, and confessed : — 

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below ; 
Words without thoughts never to heaven go. 

In the meantime, Hamlet went to his mother. At first, 

she reproached him for having offended his father, as 

she called Claudius. But when Hamlet sharply retorted, 

telling her that she had much offended his own father, 

and compelled her to be seated while he should show her 

her real self, the queen was alarmed, and called for help. 

Whereupon, Polonius, who was listening behind the 

arras,^ shouted : — 

What, ho ! help, help, help ! 

Hamlet thought that it was the king calling, and in 
his rage he thrust his sword through the tapestry, mor- 
tally wounding the prying lord chamberlain. The horri- 
fied queen exclaimed : — 

O, what a rash and bloody deed is this ! 

Hamlet. A bloody deed ! almost as bad, good mother, 

As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 

Queen. As kill a king ! 

Hamlet. Ay, lady, 'twas my word. — 

Leave wringing of your hands : peace ! sit you down. 
And let me wring your heart ; for so I shall, 
If it be made of penetrable stuff. 

Queen. What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue 
In noise so rude against me ? 

- tapestry hangings. 
268 



Hamlet. Such an act 

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, 
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love 
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows 
As false as dicers' oaths. 

Then, in order to compel his mother to feel how 
basely she had stooped through unfaithfulness to her 
marriage-vows with his father, Hamlet showed her pic- 
tures of both her husbands, while with scorching words, 
he compared the two : — 

Look here, upon this picture, and on this, 

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 

See, what a grace was seated on this brow : 

Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself; 

An eye hke Mars, to threaten and command ; 

A station like the herald Mercury 

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 

A combination and a form indeed. 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man. 

This was your husband. Look you now, what follows : 

Here is your husband ; hke a mildewed ear, 

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? 

You cannot call it love, for at your age 

The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, 

And waits upon the judgment ; and what judgment 

Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have, 

Else could you not have motion ; but sure, that sense 

Is apoplexed. 

Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more ; 

Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, 

269 



And there I see such black and grained spots 
As will not leave their tinct. 

Hamlet. A murtherer and a villain ; 

A slave that is not the twentieth part the tithe 
Of your precedent lord ; a vice of kings ; 
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, 
That from the shelf the precious diadem stole, 
And put it in his pocket ! 

Queen. O, speak to me no more ; 

These words Hke daggers enter in mine ears : 
No more, sweet Hamlet ! 

There is no telling how far Hamlet's passion of 
righteous wrath might have carried him, had he not 
been arrested at this moment by a vision of his father's 
spirit, who seemed to chide him for his delay in execut- 
ing vengeance upon his murderer, and also to remind 
him of his promise not to lift his hand against his 
mother. 

Queen Gertrude, seeing Hamlet bending his eye upon 
vacancy, and hearing him speak to some one, while she 
saw nothing, attributed this strange conduct to madness. 
She asked Hamlet : — 

To whom do you speak? 

Hamlet. Do you see nothing there? 

Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all that is I see. 

Hamlet. Nor did you nothing hear? 

Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. 

Hamlet. Why, look you there ! look, how it steals away ! 
My father, in his habit as he lived ! 
Look where he goes, even now, out at the portal ! 

Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain. 

270 



This bodiless creation ecstasy ^ 
Is very cunning in. 

But Hamlet would not allow himself to be diverted 
from his purpose, that of bringing his mother to see 
her sin, and to repent of her wrong-doing. He replied : — 

It is not madness 
• That I have uttered ; bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word, which madness 
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. 
That not your trespass but my madness speaks. 
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, 
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within. 
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ; 
Repent what's past, avoid what is to come. 

Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 

Hamlet. O, throw away the worser part of it, 
And live the purer with the other half. 

After charging his mother not to reveal what he 
had said to her, and telling her that he knew that the 
king had made arrangements to send him to England, 
Hamlet expressed his sorrow for the unintentional kill- 
ing of Polonius, saying : — 

For this same lord, 
I do repent ; but Heaven hath pleased it so. 
To punish me with this, and this with me, — ■ 

by which he meant that, if he had acted earlier and 
avenged his father's murder, he should not have stained 
his hands with the blood of an innocent man. 

1 madness, insanity. 
271 



When the queen told Claudius of Hamlet's rash act, 
he was almost beside himself with fear and perplexity. 
He feared for the result to himself when the death of 
Polonius should become known ; but he did not dare to 
'accuse Hamlet openly, both because he felt that that 
might mean danger to himself, and because, as he told 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern : — 

He's loved of the distracted multitude, 
Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes ; 
And where 'tis so, the offender's scourge is weighed, 
But never the offence. 

But he told Hamlet with a pretence of kindness, — 

Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety, — 
Must send thee hence 

With fiery quickness ; therefore prepare thyself. 
The bark is ready, and the wind at help, 
The associates tend,^ and everything is bent 
For England. 

Knowing how his uncle feared and hated him, Ham- 
let suspected treachery ; and opportunity offering while 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whom Claudius had com- 
missioned to guard him, were asleep, he broke the seal 
of their commission, and read therein the confirmation 
of his suspicions. His false uncle charged the king of 
England, if he desired to keep the peace between Den- 
mark and England unbroken, to have Hamlet put to 
death immediately upon his landing in England. Eng- 
land had suffered greatly from the Danish sword, 

1 wait. 
272 



and Claudius felt certain of compliance with his de- 
mands. 

Hamlet did not replace this commission, but substi- 
tuted another written by himself, in which he put the 
names of his treacherous companions where his own 
had been, and charged the king of England : — ■ 

That, on the view and knowing of these contents^ 
Without debatement further, more or less, 
He should the bearers put to sudden death. 

Thus we see that, by not obeying the command of 
the ghost and of his own conscience, to punish the 
wicked deed of Claudius, Hamlet had allowed himself 
to become entangled in a net of villany. 

In those old days, sea-voyaging was a dangerous busi- 
ness on account of pirate vessels that infested the seas. 
It was the fortune of the ship in which Hamlet sailed to 
fall in with such a craft, and the prince was taken pris- 
oner and held for ransom. As soon as he landed in 
Denmark, Hamlet wrote to Horatio, saying: — 

Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike ap- 
pointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we 
put on a compelled valor ; in the grapple I boarded them : on 
the instant they got clear of our ship ; so I alone became their 
prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy : but 
they knew what they did ; I am to do a good turn for them. 
Let the king have the letters I have sent ; and repair thou to 
me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words 
to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb ; yet are they much 
too light for the bore of the matter. Rosencrantz and Guild- 
T 273 



enstern hold their course for England ; of them I have much to 
tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, Hamlet. 

When Hamlet's letter announcing his unexpected 
return was put into the hand of the king he was in the 
midst of a stormy interview with Laertes, son of Polonius, 
who had returned in hot haste from France to avenge 
the murder of his father. Claudius had taken counsel 
of his fears rather than his judgment, and had had 
Polonius buried without any of the ceremonial rites 
which were properly due to a high public official. This 
strange procedure increased the popular dislike and 
distrust of the king, and caused Laertes to hold Clau- 
dius responsible for his father's death. The people were 
also greatly excited over the sudden sending away of 
Hamlet, and when Laertes arrived, they broke out into 
open revolt, crying : — 

Choose we ; Laertes shall be king ! 
Laertes shall be king, Laertes king ! 

They followed Laertes even to the door of the king's 
apartment. 

Claudius, knowing that he could prove that he was 
not the murderer of Polonius, met the wrathful Laertes 
with calm dignity. He quieted the fears of Gertrude 
by telling her : — 

There's such divinity doth hedge a king 
That treason can but peep to what it would, 
Acts little of his will. 

Then he told Laertes that it was Hamlet, not himself, 
whom he must hold guilty of his father's murder, and he 

274 



declared that Hamlet had sought to take his life also. 
Laertes, who could not understand why Claudius had 
not proceeded openly against Hamlet, asked : — 

— but tell me 
Why you proceeded not against these feats, 
So crimeful and so capital in nature, 
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, 
You mainly were stirred up. 

King. O, for two special reasons, 

Which may to you perhaps seem much unsinewed. 
But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother 
Lives almost by his looks ; and for myself — 
My virtue or my plague, be it either which — 
She's so conjunctive to my Hfe and soul. 
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, 
I could not but by her. The other motive. 
Why to a public count I might not go. 
Is the great love the general gender^ bear him ; 
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, 
Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, 
Convert his gyves to graces : so that my arrows 
Would have reverted to my bow again. 
And not where I had aimed them. 

When, therefore, Claudius read Hamlet's letter an- 
nouncing his return to Denmark, he resolved to strike 
at Hamlet through Laertes. So he proposed to Laertes 
that he should challenge Hamlet to engage in a fencing 
match with him in the presence of the entire court. 
Under the guise of simple sport, however, the wicked 
king concealed a deadly purpose. He asked Laertes : — 

1 common people. 
27^ 



What would you undertake, 
To show yourself your father's son in deed 
More than in words. 

Laertes. To cut his throat i' the church. 

King. No place, indeed, should murther sanctuarize ; 
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, 
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. 
Hamlet returned shall know you are come home : 
We'll put on those shall praise your excellence. 
Bring you together, and wager on your heads. 

He, being remiss. 
Most generous and free from all contriving, 
Will not peruse the foils ; so that, with ease 
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose 
A sword unbated,^ and in a pass of practice 
Requite him for your father. 

Laertes. I will do't. 

In thus praising Hamlet's generosity and honor, 
Claudius made his own villany seem darker by con- 
trast. Laertes permitted himself to be drawn into the 
king's wicked plot, and even added to it by a piece of 
villany of his own, thus becoming a murderer instead 
of an avenger. 

He told Claudius that he would dip the point of the 
sword which he would use in a deadly poison, so that 
the least scratch would produce death. To make the 
murder trebly sure, the king said that he would have a 
poisoned cup of wine ready to offer Hamlet when, as 
was customary, he should drink to refresh himself dur- 
ing a pause in the fencing. And to make the match 

1 The point not covered with a button, as was customary. 
276 



seem like ordinary sport, Claudius proposed to wager 
six Barbary horses on Hamlet's success. 

This plotting was interrupted by the sudden entrance 
of Queen Gertrude, who brought the sad intelligence 
that Ophelia was drowned. The shock of her father's 
death, and that by the hand of Hamlet whom she still 
loved, but whose mysterious actions had grieved her 
sorely, had completely unbalanced her reason. On 
this day she had wandered through the grounds, until 
she came to an old willow, whose boughs she attempted 
to deck with flowers. The queen told Laertes : — 

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, 

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. 

There with fantastic garlands did she come 

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples : 

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke, 

When down her weedy trophies and herself 

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, 

And, mermaid-like, a while they bore her up ; 

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, 

As one incapable of her own distress, 

Or like a creature native and indued 

Unto that element : but long it could not be 

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 

Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay 

To muddy death. 

Hamlet returned to court on the very day of Ophe- 
lia's burial, and he happened to be passing through the 
churchyard when the funeral procession entered the 
grounds. Imagine his grief and consternation when he 

277 



heard the queen say, as she strewed flowers upon the 
open grave : — 

Sweets to the sweet ; farewell ! 

I hoped thou shoiildst have been my Hamlet's wife ; 

I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, 

And not t' have strewed thy grave. 

Laertes commanded : — 

Lay her i' the earth ; — 
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Then, overcome by the sense of his heavy sorrows — 
his father murdered, and his beautiful sister crushed 
under the weight of undeserved suffering — he lost all 
control of himself, and leaped into the grave, crying : — 

O, treble woe 
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head 
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense 
Deprived thee of 1 — Hold off the earth awhile, 
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. 
Now pile your dust upon the quick ^ and dead, 
Till of this flat a mountain you have made 
To o'ertop old PeHon or the skyish head 
Of blue Olympus. 

On hearing the outcries of Laertes, Hamlet forgot 
everything but his own love for Ophelia, and in a 
frenzy of passion he threw himself upon Laertes, 

exclaiming : — 

What is he whose grief 
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow 

1 alive. 
278 



Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand 

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, 

Hamlet the Dane ! 

I loved Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers 

Could not, with all their quantity of love, 

Make up my sum — What wilt thou do for her? 

Be buried quick with her, and so will I ; 

And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw 

Millions of acres on us, till our ground, 

Singeing his pate against the burning zone. 

Make Ossa like a wart ! 

The two were parted with difficulty. As they left 
the ground, the king found an opportunity to whisper 
in the ear of Laertes, begging him to urge forward the 
encounter with Hamlet which they had planned. 

When the king's messenger brought Hamlet the chal- 
lenge, with the king's request that he would consent to 
fence with Laertes, he agreed to do so, although he felt 
some misgiving. To Horatio, who urged him to recall 
his consent, Hamlet said : — 

We defy augury : there's a special providence in the fall of a 
sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come ; if it be not to come, 
it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come : the readiness 
is all. 

Hamlet's sincerity impelled him to confess to Laertes 
how deeply he grieved for the unintentional wrong he 
had done in kiUing Polonius. So, in presence of the 
court, which had assembled to witness the fencing- 
match, he took the hand of Laertes, saying : — 

279 



Give me your pardon, sir : I've done you wrong ; 

But pardon't, as you are a gentleman. 

This presence knows, 

And you must needs have heard, how I am punished 

With sore distraction. What I have done. 

That might your nature, honor, and exception 

Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. 

Was't Hamlet wronged Laertes ? Never Hamlet : 

If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away. 

And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes, 

Then Hamlet does it not ; Hamlet denies it. 

Sir, in this audience. 

Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil 

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, 

That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, 

And hurt my brother. 

Laertes. I am satisfied in nature, 

W^hose motive, in this case, should stir me most 
To my revenge ; but in my terms of honor 
I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement 
Till by some elder masters of known honor 
I have a voice and precedent of peace. 
To keep my name ungored. But till that time, 
I do receive your offered love like love, 
And will not wrong it. 

Hamlet. I embrace it freely, 

And will this brother's wager frankly play. — 
Give us the foils. — Come on. 

In spite of his professions of friendliness, Laertes 
chose the weapon with the uncovered point, which had 
been dipped in the poison. At the end of the second 
round, the king offered Hamlet the poisoned cup, but 
he refused it. Then, before Claudius could prevent 

280 



her, Queen Gertrude drank the wine which had been 
intended for her son. 

In the third round, Laertes made the fatal thrust, but 
Hamlet wounded him in turn with the same weapon, 
which, in the scuffle, he had wrenched from Laertes' 
hand. The next moment the queen fell, calling out 
that she was poisoned. Laertes now, when it was too 
late, repented of his own treachery, and confessed to 

Hamlet : — 

Hamlet, thou art slain ; 
No medicine in the world can do thee good, 
In thee there is not half an hour of life : 
The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, 
Unbated and envenomed. The foul practice 
Hath turned itself on me ; lo, here I lie, 
Never to rise again. Thy mother's poisoned ; 
I can no more, — the king — the king's to blame. 

Hamlet. The point envenomed too ! — 
Then, venom, to thy work ! 

With these words, Hamlet stabbed the royal villain, 
thus avenging all the wrongs done to his house by the 
false Claudius, but too late for his own peace and life. 

Hamlet's last words were spoken to the faithful 
Horatio, whom he besought to report his cause aright 
to the world. As his voice sank into silence, Horatio 
said tenderly : — 

Now cracks a noble heart. — Good night, sweet prince, 
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest ! 



281 



MACBETH 



MACBETH 

Among the early kings of Scotland was Duncan, a 
man so gentle and unwarlike that he was hardly fitted 
to reign in an age when wars were frequent, and when 
the kings were expected to lead their armies in battle. 
King Duncan had a cousin named Macbeth, who pos- 
sessed all the valor and skill in generalship that were 
lacking in Duncan. So when a rebellion broke out in 
the country, Macbeth, together with Banquo, another 
able general, led the king's forces against the rebels. 
In a very short time, Macbeth had slain the leader of 
the rebellious troops, and, in the bloody fashion of those 
times, had cut off his head and fastened it upon the bat- 
tlements of a castle. 

No sooner had this victory been gained, however, than 
a second traitor, the Thane of Cawdor, assisted by the 
king of Norway, attacked Macbeth and Banquo. In 
the battle which followed, the Scottish generals were 
again victorious, and the Norwegian king asked for 
terms of peace. His request was granted, but Duncan 
ordered that the Thane of Cawdor should be put to 
death, and that his title should be given to the valorous 
Macbeth, saying: — 

What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. 
285 



On their way to the court, after the close of the war, 
Macbeth and Banquo had occasion to pass over a dreary 
heath. Suddenly they discovered three wild-looking 
women in their path, whereupon Banquo exclaimed : — 

What are these 
So withered, and so wild in their attire, 
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, 
And yet are on't ? Live you ? or are you aught 
That man may question? You seem to understand me, 
By each at once her choppy finger laying 
Upon her skinny hps : you should be women, 
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
That you are so. 

Macbeth. Speak, if you can : what are you ? 

First Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, Thane of 

Glamis ! 
Second Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, Thane of 

Cawdor ! 
Third Witch. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king here- 
after ! 

The title given him by the first witch Macbeth had 
already received by inheritance, and he probably ex- 
pected that the king would reward his conquest of the 
Thane of Cawdor by giving him the lands and the title 
of that traitor, but the greeting of the third witch 
startled him. He was ambitious, and very likely he 
felt that his strength and valor made him more fit to 
rule than his unwarlike cousin, and the witch's words 
awoke strange thoughts in his breast. While he was 
meditating upon this, Banquo, who wanted the weird 

286 



sisters to prophesy some good fortune for him also, said 
to them : — 

My noble partner 
You greet with present grace and great prediction 
Of noble having and of royal hope, 
That he seems rapt withal : to me you speak not. 
If you can look into the seeds of time, 
And say which grain will grow and which will not, 
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear 
Your favors nor your hate. 

In response to this request, the sisters told Banquo 
that, although he should not become king himself, he 
should be the father of kings. 

As the two generals continued their journey, they 
were met by the messenger whom Duncan had sent to 
inform Macbeth that he had made him Thane of Caw- 
dor. This speedy confirmation of his own hopes and of 
the witches' predictions so excited Macbeth that he for- 
got everything but his own ambition to become king, 
and he fell into a fit of abstraction, saying to himself : — 

Two truths are told, 
As happy prologues to the swelling act 
Of the imperial theme. — I am Thane of Cawdor i 
. . . Why do I yield to that suggestion 
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair. 
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
Are less than horrible imaginings : 
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,^ 

1 imaginary, 
287 



Shakes so my single state of man, that function 

Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is 

But what is not. 

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown 

me. 
Without my stir. 

Banquo recalls Macbeth to a realization of the pres- 
ence of others, and they proceed, after agreeing to talk 
over what has happened at another time. 

In those early times, a king was not always succeeded 
by his son. Sometimes the king himself named his own 
successor ; sometimes the great lords chose the new 
ruler. It was natural for Macbeth to think that, if he 
showed his fitness to rule by conquering the enemies 
of the nation, either Duncan himself, or the lords, would 
choose him as the next king. But after he arrived at 
court, and had received the thanks of Duncan for the 
great service he had done the state in his successful 
conduct of the war, he was bitterly disappointed in his 
hopes by hearing the king, in the presence of all the 
nobles, declare that his oldest son, Malcolm, should be 
his successor on the throne of Scotland. 

Duncan. Sons, kinsmen, thanes. 

And you whose places are the nearest, know 
We will establish our estate upon 
Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter 
The Prince of Cumberland. 

This unexpected announcement gave Macbeth such a 
shock that he said to himself in an undertone : — 



The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step 
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires, 
Let not light see my black and deep desires : 
The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be, 
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. 

After his meeting with the witches, Macbeth had 
written a letter to his wife acquainting her with what 
they had prophesied, and closing with these words : — 

This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner 
of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by 
being ignoi^ant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to 
thy heart, and farewell. 

Now Lady Macbeth was also very ambitious, and she 
longed to see her husband on the throne of Scotland : 
but she knew him better than he knew himself ; she 
knew that he had no conscientious scruples against 
using any means to accomplish his end, but that he 
feared the consequences of detection. She herself was 
very resolute, and she determined to quench all tender 
womanly impulses, and to call up an iron resolution in 
support of her husband's ambition. 

While she was still meditating upon her resolve, a 
messenger arrived, who told her that King Duncan and 
his train were coming to spend the night at Macbeth's 
castle. He was followed almost immediately by Mac- 
beth himself, who confirmed the report of Duncan's 
coming. At once, in the minds of both, guilty thoughts 
arose — thoughts which they hardly dared to breathe 
u 289 



even to each other. But they greeted the king with 
smiles and words of welcome, and he, having no sus- 
picion of any evil intended toward himself, admired 
the beauty of the castle and the surrounding country, 
and said of Macbeth : — 

— we love him highly, 
And shall continue our gi-aces towards him. 

The ungrateful Macbeth, however, left the king s 
presence, and fell to musing upon Duncan's goodness 
and his own evil desire. He tried, in vain, to think of 
some act of cruelty on the part of Duncan. The fact 
that the king was his guest made the crime which he 
was meditating seem still greater ; but he refused to 
obey the voice of his conscience which told him : — 

— this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead hke angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off. 

I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself 
And falls on the other side. 

It may be that Macbeth would have given up his 
wicked purpose, if Lady Macbeth had not entered at 
that moment. She chided him harshly for what she 
called his weakness in saying : — 

We will proceed no further in this business : 
He hath honored me of late ; and I have bought 
Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 

290 



Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. 

Lady Macbeth. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valor 
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that 
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of Hfe, 
And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
Letting " I dare not " wait upon " I would," 
Like the poor cat i' the adage ? 

Macbeth. Prithee, peace : 

I dare do all that may become a man ; 
Who dares do more is none. 

Lady Macbeth. What beast was't, then, 

That made you break this enterprise to me? 
When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
And, to be more than what you were, you would 
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : 
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
Does unmake you. 

Macbeth. If we should fail, — 

Lady Macbeth. We fail. 

But screw your courage to the sticking place. 
And we'll not fail. 

Thereupon, Lady Macbeth unfolded her plan, which 
was to wait until Duncan should be asleep, and then to 
make his attendants drunk, so that, while the king was 
unguarded, they could do their will upon him ; and by 
smearing the drunken officers with blood, they could 
make these men appear to be the murderers. 

Thus urged on by his wife, Macbeth resolved to 
carry out his guilty purpose. Night came, and when 

291 



all the inmates of the castle were sleeping, Lady Mac- 
beth stole into Duncan's chamber and laid the daggers 
ready for Macbeth's hand. She would have murdered 
the king herself, had he not looked so much like her 
father in his sleep that even her hard heart failed her. 
She was to ring a bell when all was ready, and while 
Macbeth waited for the signal, he seemed to see a 
vision of his coming deed. So horrified was he that 
he spoke : — 

Macbeth. Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee 
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind, a false creation. 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As this which now I draw. 
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; 
And such an instrument I was to use. 
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
Or else worth all the rest ; I see thee still. 
And on thy blade and dudgeon ^ gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. There's no such thing : 
It is the bloody business which informs 
Thus to mine eyes. . . . Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
The very stones prate of my whereabout. 
And take the present horror from the time, 
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: 
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 

1 handle, hilt. 
292 



I go, and it is done : the bell invites me. 
Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
That summons thee to heaven or to hell. 

The moment the deed was done, Macbeth was over- 
whelmed with the horror of his guilt, and he hurried to 
the room where Lady Macbeth was waiting. As he 
passed the open door of the rooms where some of the 
royal party were lying, he seemed to hear the cry of 
"Murder!" and listening, he heard a prayer recited. 
When the speaker said ''God bless us," he longed to 
say "Amen," but the word stuck in his throat. His 
wild manner in recounting this so alarmed Lady Mac- 
beth that she told him — 

These deeds must not be thought 

After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 

Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry " Sleep no 
more ! 
Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep, 
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in Hfe's feast, — 

Lady Macbeth. What do you mean ? 

Macbeth. Still it cried " Sleep no more ! " to all the house : 
" Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
Shall sleep no more : Macbeth shall sleep no more." 

Lady Macbeth. Who was it that thus cried? Why, 
worthy thane. 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 

293 



Why did you bring these daggers from the place? 
They must He there : go carry them, and smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 

Macbeth. I'll go no more : 

I am afraid to think what I have done; 
Look on't again I dare not. 

Lady Macbeth. Infirm of purpose ! 

Give me the daggers : the sleeping and the dead 
Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, 
For it must seem their guilt. 

With Lady Macbeth to think was to act. Taking the 
bloody daggers, she went quickly to the chamber where 
lay the murdered Duncan, laid the daggers beside the 
unconscious grooms, after smearing their faces with 
blood, and as quickly returned to her husband, to whom 
she scornfully said : — 

My hands are of your color ; but I scorn 

To wear a heart so white. — I hear a knocking 

At the south entry : retire we to our chamber : 

A little water clears us of this deed : 

How easy is it, then ! 

Hark ! more knocking. 

Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 

And show us to be watchers. 

While the two guilty ones were trying to rid them- 
selves of the marks of their murderous deed, morning 
had come, but not daylight. For a fearful storm which 
had made the night unruly, blowing down chimneys and 
screaming, as it were, in the gale, still kept the sun's 

294 



rays hid. By the clock 'twas day, but the darkness of 
night still shrouded the earth. 

The knocking which had disturbed the guilty pair 
announced the arrival of Lennox and Macduff, two pow- 
erful nobles who had come to the castle by appointment 
with the king. Macduff sought Duncan in his chamber, 
but immediately returned to report his awful discovery. 

Macduff. O horror, horror, horror ! Tongue nor heart 
Cannot conceive nor name thee ! 
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece ! 
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope 
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence 
The life o' the building ! 

Macbeth. What is't you say? the life? 

Lennox. Mean you his majesty? 

Macduff. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight 
With a new Gorgon : do not bid me speak ; 
See, and then speak yourselves. 

Macbeth and Lennox hasten to the chamber, where 
Macbeth, in counterfeited wrath, slays the grooms in 
order to divert suspicion from himself. The alarum bell 
is rung to rouse the other inmates of the castle. With 
horror-stricken faces the nobles present consult as to 
how the murder of Duncan can be avenged. The two 
sons of Duncan, Malcolm and Donalbain, alarmed for 
their own safety, flee from the country. Malcolm feels 
that there must be treachery somewhere, and says to his 
brother : — 

What will you do? Let's not consort with them : 
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office 

295 



Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. 

DoNALBAiN. To Ireland I ; our separated fortune 
Shall keep us both the safer ; where we are, 
There's daggers in men's smiles : the near in blood, 
The nearer bloody. 

Malcolm. This murderous shaft that's shot 
Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse ; 
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, 
But shift away : there's warrant in that theft 
Which steals itself when there's no mercy left. 

From this conversation it is easy to see that the sons 
of the murdered king suspected who had committed the 
murder. Macbeth, on his part, took advantage of their 
flight to throw suspicion on them. As there was no one 
nearer in blood, and as Macbeth was generally regarded 
as the protector of Scotland, he was crowned king. Thus 
was the prophecy of the v/itches concerning Macbeth 
fulfilled. Since Banquo alone knew of the secret meet- 
ing with the weird sisters, is it any wonder that he should 
begin to query with himself as to whether their predic- 
tion might not be accomplished in his own case also .'' 
After Macbeth's coronation he thus communed with 
himself : — 

Thou hast it now : king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, 
As the weird sisters promised, and, I fear, 
Thou play'dst most foully for't : yet it was said 
It should not stand in thy posterity. 
But that myself should be the root and father 
Of many kings. If there come truth from them — 
As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine — 

296 



Why, by the verities on thee made good, 

May they not be my oracles as well, 

And set me up in hope ? But hush ! no more. 

For a time, Macbeth ruled wisely and sought to pro- 
mote the good of the kingdom ; but his guilty con- 
science kept him in constant fear of detection. He 
became so suspicious that he bribed servants of the 
great nobles to watch their masters, and to report to 
him anything that indicated dislike or distrust of him- 
self. Knowing what the witches had prophesied for 
Banquo, he was apprehensive lest Banquo should plot 
against him in order to open the way for seating a 
son of his own upon the throne. In his anxiety, 

he mused : — 

Our fears in Banquo 
Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature 
Reigns that which would be feared : 'tis much he dares ; 
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor 
To act in safety. There is none but he 
Whose being I do fear. He chid the sisters 
When first they put the name of king upon me. 
And bade them speak to him : then prophet-like 
They hailed him father to a line of kings : 
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, 
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, 
Thence to be wrenched with an unhneal hand, 
No son of mine succeeding. If t be so. 
For Banquo's issue have I filed ^ my mind ; 
For them the gracious Duncan have I murdered ; 
To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings ! 

1 defiled. 
297 



Having gained the throne by crime, Macbeth did not 
hesitate to use further violence to make himself, as he 
thought, secure. In his blindness he believed that : — 

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. 

In order to rid himself of the fear of Banquo, he 
hired some desperate men to kill him, having excited 
their hatred by falsely representing to them that Banquo 
had done them an injury. After telling them that Ban- 
quo was their enemy, he continued : — 

So is he mine ; and though I could 
With barefaced power sweep him from my sight 
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not. 
For certain friends that are both his and mine, 
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall, 
Who I myself struck down : and thence it is, 
That I to your assistance do make love. 
Masking the business from the common eye 
For sundry weighty reasons. 

Then Macbeth gives these hired murderers minute 
instructions how to proceed. They are to attack Ban- 
quo and his son after nightfall, as they are coming to 
the palace to attend a banquet which Macbeth is to give 
to the Scottish nobles. 

Night comes : the guests are assembled, and Lady 
Macbeth entreats her husband to be gay and jovial ; to 
conceal under smiles the trouble with which his spirits 
are oppressed. Macbeth makes a great effort to seem 
cordial and free from care. He tells his guests : — 

298 



You know your own degrees ; sir down : at first 
And last the hearty welcome. 
Be large in mirth ; anon we'll drink a measure 
The table round. 

Just as he is about to seat himself at the table, how- 
ever, he is called out to receive the report of the assas- 
sins whom he had employed. They have killed Banquo, 
but his son Fleance has escaped under cover of the 
darkness. 

Then comes my fit again ! — 

exclaims Macbeth, whose hope of preventing the fulfil- 
ment of the prophecy that sons of Banquo shall rule in 
Scotland, is baffled by the escape of Fleance. 

Macbeth was so unnerved by the disappointing news 
that, as he moved toward the table, he seemed to him- 
self to see the ghost of the murdered Banquo sitting in 
the chair which he was intending to occupy. Overcome 
with horror, he lost all sense of occasion and surround- 
ings, and with wild words, challenged the ghostly visi- 
tant : — 

Thou canst not say I did it : never shake 
Thy gory locks at me. 

He is recalled to himself by the sharp rebuke of 
Lady Macbeth : — 

What, quite unmanned in folly? 

Conscious that he must have betrayed what he would 
not that any one should know, he tries to apologize : — 

299 



Do not muse ^ at me, my most worthy friends ; 

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing 

To those that know me. Come, love and health to all ; 

Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine ; fill full. 

I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, 

And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss : 

Would he were here ! to all and him, we thirst, 

And all to all. 

As Macbeth uttered the name of Banquo, the ghost 
of the murdered thane seemed again to rise before his 
horrified gaze ; whereupon he cried : — 

Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! let the earth hide thee ! 

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; 

Thou hast no speculation^ in those eyes 

Which thou dost glare with. 

Hence, horrible shadow ! Unreal mockery, hence ! 

Realizing that it was useless to attempt to go on with 
the banquet, Lady Macbeth hurriedly dismissed the 
guests, saying : — 

I pray you, speak not ; he grows worse and worse ; 
Question enrages him. At once, good night : 
Stand not upon the order of your going. 
But go at once. 

Lennox. Good night ; and better health 
Attend his majesty ! 

Lady Macbeth. A kind good night to all ! 

After this, Macbeth's conscience stung him so that he 
suspected many of the leading nobles of plotting against 

1 \vonder. 2 sight. 

300 



him. His fears made him a cruel tyrant. Many were 
the men whom he put to death simply because he 
thought them unfriendly to his rule. So wickedly did 
he oppress the people that one of the lords said of 
Scotland : — 

Alas, poor country ! It cannot 

Be called our mother, but our grave ; where nothing, 

But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 

Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air, 

Are made, not marked ; where violent sorrow seems 

A modern ecstasy : the dead man's knell 

Is there scarce asked for who ; and good men's lives 

Expire before the flowers in their caps, 

Dying or ere they sicken. 

The man whom Macbeth feared and hated be'fore all 
others was Macduff, for that noble had openly avowed 
his hatred of the tyrant. Finally, Macbeth's fears be- 
came so great that he resolved to seek the witches once 
more, to learn from them, if he might, who were his 
most dangerous enemies, and whether the son of Ban- 
quo should ever rule in Scotland. 

The night that he chose for this errand was wild and 
stormy. He found the weird sisters dancing around a 
huge cauldron in which they were brewing evil charms. 
Into the horrid mixture they were throwing everything 
ugly, such as snakes and lizards and bats, teeth of 
wolves and scales of dragons, the entrails of sea-sharks 
and tigers, together with poisonous herbs ; and all mois- 
tened with the blood of a baboon. As they danced, 
they sang : — 

301 



Double, double toil and trouble ; 
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 

Unawed by the horrid sight and sounds, Macbeth 
demanded that the weird women should show him a 
vision of the future. Then they poured fresh blood 
into the boiling mixture, and through the steaming vapor 
Macbeth beheld an armed head rise. To his thought 
it seemed to say : — 

Macbeth ! Macbeth ! Macbeth ! beware Macduff; 
Beware the thane of Fife. 

As the apparition disappeared, Macbeth exclaimed, — 

Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks : 
Thou hast harped my fear aright. 

And now appeared a second apparition, that of a 
bloody child, who charged Macbeth to — 

Be bloody, bold, and resolute ; laugh to scOrn 
The power of man, for none of woman born 
Shall harm Macbeth. 

Macbeth. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of 
thee? 
But yet I'll make assurance double sure, 
And take a bond of fate : thou shalt not live ; 
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, 
And sleep in spite of thunder. 

Even while Macbeth was defying fate, a third spirit 
in the form of a child carrying a tree in its hand, rose 
before his startled eyes. The child-king spoke thus : — 

Be hon-mettled, proud, and take no care 
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are : 

302 



Macbeth shall never vanquished be until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him. 

But still Macbeth was unsatisfied, for he longed to 
know whether, as had been foretold, the children of 
Banquo would succeed to the throne of Scotland. For 
answer to this question, a procession of eight shadow 
kings seemed to file before Macbeth's vision. Last of 
all came the ghost of Banquo, who pointed at the shad- 
ows, as if to claim them as his, by which sign Macbeth 
knew that all his crimes had failed to gain the end he 
sought, namely, to seat his own family securely on the 
throne. 

The effect of these revelations was to cause Macbeth 
to pursue Macduff with increased hatred, and to rule 
more tyrannically than ever. His great fear was lest 
the Scottish people should revolt against him, and at- 
tempt to make Malcolm, the son of Duncan, king. It 
was whispered about among the nobles that — 

The son of Duncan 
Lives in the English court, and is received 
Of the most pious Edward with such grace 
That the malevolence of fortune nothing 
Takes from his high respect : thither Macduff 
Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid 
To wake Northumberland and warhke Siward : 
That, by the help of these — with Him above 
To ratify the work — we may again 
Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, 
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, 

3°3 



Do faithful tiomage and receive free honors : 
All which we pine for now. 

When the news that Macduff had fled to join Malcolm 
at the English court came to the ears of Macbeth, he 
resorted to the most awful means of vengeance. Since 
he could not lay hands upon Macduff himself, he had 
that noble's wife and children all put to death in their 
own castle home. This savage deed raised Macduff's 
hatred of the tyrant to a pitch of fury, and hastened the 
march of the army that was already preparing to move 
against Macbeth. Macduff longed to meet in battle the 
murderer of his helpless wife and innocent children. 
He prayed : — 

Front to front 

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 

Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape, 

Heaven forgive him too ! 

Malcolm and Macduff felt that they were instruments 
of God's justice, appointed to punish the wicked king. 
They set forth upon their march to Scotland believing 
that — 

Macbeth is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 

Put on their instruments. 

In the midst of his preparations for war, Macbeth 
was called to mourn the loss of his broken-hearted wife 
whose love for him had made her a partner in the great 
crimes by whose means he had gained the crown. For 
months, remorse had so preyed upon her mind that she 
had lost her reason, and she would walk in her sleep, 

304 



moaning constantly, and trying to wash from her hands 
the traces of Duncan's blood, which she fancied were 
still there. But it was all in vain, and in her despair 
she cried : — 

Here's the smell of the blood still : all the perfumes of Arabia 
will not sweeten this litde hand. 

As vainly too did Macbeth, who was tenderly attached 
to his faithful wife, beg the doctor to cure her of the 
fancies that haunted her rest : — 

Macbeth. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow. 
Raze out the written troubles of the brain. 
And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff 
Which weighs upon the heart? 

Doctor. Therein the patient 

Must minister to himself. 

Macbeth. Throw physic to the dogs ; I'll none of it. 

When, at length, death came to the relief of the 
frenzied queen, Macbeth was so hard-pressed by his 
enemies that he could give no time to grief. He could 

only say: — 

Out, out, brief candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. 

To such a base view of life had a career of crime 
brought the once loved hero of Scotland. 
X 305 



There was no time to be lost, however, for the forces 
of Malcolm and Macduff were rapidly approaching the 
castle of Dunsinane wherein Macbeth had fortified him- 
self. Nor could Macbeth count upon the support of 
the leaders of his own troops, some of whom were only 
waiting until the English soldiers should arrive to go 
over to the side of their country's deliverers. Their 
abhorrence of Macbeth's tyranny, and their eagerness 
to welcome Malcolm, appear as they talk together be- 
fore the battle : — 

Menteith. The English power is near, led on by 
Malcolm, 
His uncle Siward and the good Macduff: 
Revenges burn in them ; for their dear causes 
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm 
Excite the mortified ^ man. 

Angus. Near Birnam wood 

Shall we well meet them ; that way are they coming. 

Menteith. What does the tyrant? 

Caithness. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies ; 
Some say he's mad ; others that lesser hate him 
Do call it valiant fury : but, for certain. 
He cannot buckle his distempered cause 
Within the belt of rule. 

Angus. Now does he feel 

His secret murders sticking on his hands ; 
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach ; 
Those he commands move only in command, 
Nothing in love : now does he feel his title 
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe 
Upon a dwarfish thief. 

1 dead. 
306 



Caithness. Well, march we on, 

To give obedience where 'tis truly owed : 
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, 
And with him pour we in our country's purge 
Each drop of us. 

Lennox. Or so much as it needs, 

To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. 
Make we our march towards Birnam. 

Although everything seemed to bode defeat to Mac- 
l^eth, yet he felt that he bore a charmed life, for he still 
relied on the doubtful predictions of the witches. To 
those who sought to alarm him by reports of the great 
numbers of the enemy, he said : — 

Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all : 

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, 

I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? 

Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know 

All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus : 

" Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that's born of woman 

Shall e'er have power upon thee." Then fly, false 

thanes. 
And mingle with the English epicures : 
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear 
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. 

In spite of his bold speeches, however, Macbeth felt 
in his secret heart that the judgment of God was upon 
him, and that his was a ruined life. To himself he 
confessed : — 

I have lived long enough : my way of Hfe 
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; 
And that which should accompany old age, 

307 



As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath. 
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. 

Nevertheless, his valor did not forsake him ; he de- 
clared : — 

I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked. 

Give me my armor. 

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 

Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. 

The approach to the castle of Dunsinane led through 
Birnam wood, and, in order to make their numbers 
seem greater than they really were, Malcolm com- 
manded his soldiers each to hew down a bough and 
carry it before him. The effect of this was to give the 
advancing army the appearance of a moving forest. At 
sight of this singular spectacle, a sentinel hastened to 
Macbeth and reported breathlessly : — 

As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 

I looked toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 

The wood began to move. 

Macbeth. If thou speak'st false. 

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive. 
Till famine cling ^ thee : if thy speech be sooth,^ 
I care not if thou dost for me as much. 
I pull in resolution, and begin 
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend 
That lies like truth : " Fear not, till Birnam wood 
Do come to Dunsinane : " and now a wood 
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out ! 

1 shrivel. 2 truth. 

308 



If this which he avouches does appear, 

There is no flying hence nor tarrying here. 

I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, 

And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. 

Ring the alarum-bell ! Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 

At least we'll die with harness on our back. 

Although conscience seemed almost dead in Macbeth, 
yet he dreaded to face the man who had such reason to 
desire his death. He said to Macduff who sought him 
out : — 

Of all men else I have avoided thee : 

But get thee back ; my soul is too much charged 

With blood of thine already. 

Macduff. I have no words : 

My voice is in my sword : thou bloodier villain 

Than terms can give thee out ! 

Even yet Macbeth clung to the hope given him by 
the witches, and he told Macduff : — 

Thou losest labor : 
As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air 
With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed : 
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests ; 
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
To one of woman born. 

Macduff's reply took away the last shred of hope in 
the heart of Macbeth, for he told the wicked tyrant to 
despair of his charm, since he had been brought into 
the world by unnatural means. Then Macbeth ex- 
claimed : — 

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 
For it hath cowed my better part of man ! 

309 



And be these juggling fiends no more believed, 

That palter ^ with us in a double sense ; 

That keep the word of promise to our ear, 

And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee. 

Macduff. Then yield thee^ coward, 
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time : 
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are. 
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 
" Here you may see the tyrant." 

Macbeth. I will not yield, 

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet. 
And to be bated with the rabble's curse. 
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
And thou opposed, being of no woman born. 
Yet I will try the last. Before my body 
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, 
And damned be him that first cries, " Hold, enough !" 

In the fierce combat that followed, Macbeth v^^as slain, 
thus paying the just penalty for his awful crimes. The 
nobility of Scotland, rejoiced at their deliverance from 
the tyrant's hateful rule, hailed Malcolm as their right- 
ful king, and he was crowned at Scone, to the great joy 
of the Scottish people. 

1 trifle, play false. 



310 



THE WINTER'S TALE 



THE WINTER'S TALE 

It happened once upon a time that a poor Bohemian 
shepherd, while engaged in hunting wild animals, found 
a dear little baby girl lying upon the sea-shore. When 
the astonished shepherd took up the child, he saw that 
she was dressed in rich clothing, and that she wore costly 
jewels fastened about her neck. In the folds of her 
garments he found also a heavy purse filled with gold, 
and a paper on which was written, " Her name is Per- 
dita," — -meaning the lost one. 

A terrible storm was raging at the time, and the shep- 
herd's son, who came up with his father at this moment, 
reported breathlessly that he had seen a vessel dashed 
to pieces upon the rocks, and that all the crew had 
drowned before he could do anything to save them. 
One of the ship's passengers had reached the shore, he 
said, only to be torn in pieces by a bear which the hunt- 
ers were pursuing. 

Shepherd. Would I had been by, to have helped the old 
man 1 

Son. I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped 
her. 

Shepherd. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! but look thee 
here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou mettest with things dying, 
I with things new-born. Here's a sight for thee ; look thee 

313 



here ; take up, take up, boy ; open't. So, let's see. It was 
told me I should be rich by the fairies. What's within, boy? 

Son. You're a made old man. Gold ! all gold ! 

Shepherd. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so ; up 
with it, keep it close : home, home, the next way. We are 
lucky, boy ; and to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy. 

There was an old belief that fairies sometimes left 
one of their own offspring in exchange for a human 
child that they had stolen. The old shepherd thought 
that the baby Perdita was such a changeling, and that 
he should be prospered if he should bring her up as his 
own child. The two shepherds, father and son, wisely 
thought that to do a kind deed was a likely way to bring 
blessings upon themselves ; so they tarried long enough 
to bury what was left of the poor gentleman who had 
been killed by the bear. 

We, who are in the secret, may tell what these simple 
people could not know, — that the dead gentleman was 
Antigonus, a Sicilian lord, whose cruel act in exposing 
the innocent babe to the fury of the storm was done 
by command of the king of Sicily, father of the little 
Perdita. 

It is hard to understand how a father could give such 
a wicked order, but it came about in this wise. Leontes, 
king of Sicily, and his beautiful queen, Hermione, were 
living happy in the love of their subjects, and rejoicing 
in the possession of a fine little son, Prince Mamillius, 
who was a boy of great promise. 

In his youth Leontes had become greatly attached to 
one of his princely mates who had, in his manhood, 

314 



ascended the throne of Bohemia. In the many years 
since they had been separated the two royal friends had 
lost none of their affection for each other, and had often 
exchanged gifts in token of their love. 

At length, Polixenes, the Bohemian ruler, came to 
visit Leontes, and he was entertained with a magnifi- 
cence rare even for a king. So much did Leontes enjoy 
the society of his friend that when, after a stay of nine 
months at the Sicilian court, Polixenes announced his 
intention of returning to his own country, Leontes en- 
treated him to prolong his visit, at least one week more. 
Polixenes replied : — 

Nine changes of the watery star hath been 

The shepherd's note since we have left our throne 

Without a burthen : time as long again 

Would be filled up, my brother, with our thanks ; 

And yet we should, for perpetuity, 

Go hence in debt : and, therefore, like a cipher, 

Yet standing in rich place, I multiply 

With one " We thank you " many thousands more 

That go before ito 

Leontes. Stay your thanks awhile ; 

And pay them when you part.-^ 

Polixenes. Sir, that's to-morrow. 

I am questioned by my fears, of what may chance 
Or breed upon our absence. — Besides, I have stayed 
To tire your royalty. 

Leontes. One seven-night longer. 

Polixenes. Press me not, beseech you, so. 
There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world 
So soon as yours, could win me ; so it should now, 

1 depart. 



Were there necessity in your request, although 

'Twere needful I denied it. IMy affairs 

Do even drag me homeward. Farewell, our brother. 

Seeing that Polixenes was bent upon immediate de- 
parture, Leontes asked Queen Hermione to add her 
entreaties to his. Hermione urged heartily : — 

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until 
You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, 
Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure 
All in Bohemia's w^ell ; this satisfaction 
The bygone day proclaimed. 

Leontes. Well said, Hermione. 

Hermione. To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong : 
But let him say so then, and let him go ; 
But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 
We'll thwack him hence with distaffs. — 
Yet of your royal presence I'll adventure 
The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia 
You take my lord, I'll give him my commission 
To let him there a month behind the gest^ 
Prefixed for's parting. — You'll stay? 

Polixenes. No, madam. 

Hermione. Nay, but you will ? 

Polixenes. I may not, verily. 

Hermione. Verily, 
You shall not go ; a lady's " Verily " is 
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet? 
Force me to keep you as a prisoner. 
Not like a guest. How say you? 
IMy prisoner? or my guest? by your dread ''Verily," 
One of them you shall be. 

1 limit. 
316 



POLIXENES. Your guest, then, madam : 

To be your prisoner should import offending : 
Which is for me less easy to commit 
Than you to punish. 

Hermione. Not your gaoler, then, 

But your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you 
Of my lord's tricks and yours when you were boys ; 
You were pretty lordings then ? 

PoLixENES. We were, fair queen. 

Two lads that thought there was no more behind 
But such a day to-morrow as to-day. 
And to be boy eternal. 

Hermione. Was not my lord 

The verier wag o' the two? 

PoLiXENES. We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i' 
the sun. 
And bleat the one at the other. What we changed 
Was innocence for innocence ; we knew not 
The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed 
That any did. 
Temptations have since been born to us. 

Leontes. Is he won yet ? 

Hermione. He'll stay, my lord. 

Leontes. At my request he would not. 

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st 
To better purpose. 

As he watched the pleasant by-play between Hermione 
and Polixenes, a sudden jealous anger smote the heart of 
Leontes. Because Polixenes had resisted his entreaties, 
and had consented to prolong his stay at the request of 
Hermione, Leontes falsely imagined that his friend had 
won the love of Hermione from himself. In a moment, 
he became so inflamed with jealousy that all his love 

317 



and friendship were turned into hatred. The friendly 
attention which Hermione bestowed upon PoHxenes, 
because she thought that in so doing she was giving her 
husband pleasure, Leontes, blinded with jealousy, mis- 
interpreted as tokens of unlawful love. 

The jealous king even went so far as to communicate 
his unjust suspicions to Camillo, one of his trusted 
attendant lords. Camillo resented the cruel insinuations 
against the queen's honor, saying : — 

Good my lord, be cured 
Of this diseased opinion, and betimes j 
For 'tis most dangerous. 

Nothing that Camillo could say, however, would in- 
duce Leontes to put by his evil suspicions. During the 
visit of Polixenes, Camillo had been his cup-bearer at 
table, and now Leontes went so far as to hint that it 
would please him were Camillo to pour some poisonous 
liquid into the cup when he should next offer it to 
Polixenes. 

Leontes. Thou, 

His cup-bearer mightst bespice a cup, 
To give mine enemy a lasting wink ; 
Which draught to me were cordial. 

Camillo. Sir, my lord, 

I could do this, and that with no rash potion, 
But with a lingering dram that should not work 
Maliciously like poison ; but I cannot 
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress. 
So sovereignly being honorable. 

Leontes. Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 
318 



To appoint myself in this vexation, — 

Give scandal to the blood o' the prince my son, 

Without ripe moving to't? Would I do this? 

Camillo. I must beheve you, sir : 

I do ; and will fetch off Bohemia for't : 
Provided that, when he's removed, your highness 
Will take again your queen as yours at first, 
Even for your son's sake. 

Leontes. Thou dost advise me 

Even so as I mine own course have set down : 
I'll give no blemish to her honor, none. 

Camillo. My lord. 
Go then ; and with a countenance as clear 
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia 
And with your queen. I am his cup-bearer ; 
If from me he have wholesome beverage, 
Account me not your servant. 

Camillo gave this promise only in order to gain time 
for devising a plan whereby he might save the life of 
Polixenes. When Leontes left him, he murmured in 
his distress of mind : — 

O miserable lady ! — But, for me. 
What case stand I in ? I must be the poisoner 
Of good Pohxenes. — To do this deed. 
Promotion follows. If I could find example 
Of thousands that had struck anointed kings 
And flourished after, I'd not do it ; but since 
Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one. 
Let villany itself forswear it. I must 
Forsake the court. 

At this moment, Polixenes enters. He is greatly 
astonished because Leontes, whom he has just met, has 

319 



frowned upon him, and refused to answer his words of 
friendly courtesy. He begs Camillo to tell him what 
can have caused such a sudden change. Whereupon 
Camillo replies : — 

There is a sickness 
Which puts some of us in distemper, but 
I cannot name the disease ; and it is caught 
Of you that are well. 

PoLixENES. How ! caught of me ! 

I beseech you, 

If you know aught which does behove my knowledge 
Thereof to be informed, imprison't not 
In ignorant concealment. 

Cajvullo. I may not answer. 

PoLiXENES. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well ! 
I must be answered. Dost thou hear, Camillo, 
I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 
Which honor does acknowledge, — that thou declare 
What incidency ^ thou dost guess of harm 
Is creeping toward me ; how far off, how near ; 
Which way to be prevented, if to be ; 
If not, how best to bear it. 

Camillo. I am appointed him to murther you. 

PoLiXENES. By whom, Camillo ? 

Ca^vullo. By the king. 

PoLixENES. For what ? 

Camillo. He thinks, nay with all confidence he 
swears, 
That you have touched his queen forbiddenly. 

PoLiXENES. How should this grow? 

Camillo. I know not ; but I am sure 'tis safer to 
Avoid what's grown than question how 'tis born. 

1 liability to happen. 
320 



The good Camillo then unfolded a plan that he had 
formed, which was that Polixenes should steal away 
secretly that night. His followers should be quietly 
informed of the danger, and should be let out of the 
city by different gates, of which Camillo himself held 
the keys. To escape the vengeance which Leontes 
would certainly inflict when he should discover that 
Camillo had thwarted his wicked design, it was neces- 
sary for Camillo to accompany Polixenes to Bohemia. 
The grateful Polixenes urged him : — 

Give me thy hand ; 
Be pilot to me, and thy places shall 
Still neighbor mine. My ships are ready, and 
My people did expect my hence departure 
Two days ago. This jealousy 
Is for a precious creature ; as she's rare, 
Must it be great, and as his person's mighty, 
Must it be violent. Fear o'ershades me ; 
Good expedition be my friend, and comfort 
The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing 
Of his ill-ta'en suspicion ! — Come, Camillo ; 
I will respect thee as a father, if 
Thou bear'st my life off hence : let us avoid. 

Camillo. It is in mine authority to command 
The keys of all the posterns ; please your highness 
To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. 

The flight of Polixenes and Camillo added fuel to the 
fire of Leontes' jealous rage. He chose to regard this 
sudden departure as a confession of guilt on the part of 
Polixenes. Thereupon he publicly accused Hermione 

Y 321 



of unfaithfulness, and ordered that she be cast mto 
prison. 

The Sicihan lords, one and all, so trusted and honored 
the wronged queen that they braved the anger of the 
king by proclaiming their faith in Hermione's purity. 
Said one : — 

For her, my lord, 
I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir. 
Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless 
In this which you accuse her. 

Leontes. Hold your peace. 

Lord. More it would content me 
To have her honor true than your suspicion, 
Be blamed for't how you might. 

In order to satisfy others, as well as himself, Leontes 
despatched two lords to the shrine of the Grecian Apollo 
at Delphi, to obtain the judgment of the god concerning 
the guilt or innocence of the queen. During their 
absence, Hermione remained shut up in prison, where, 
one day, a daughter was born to her. 

This circumstance still further excited the indignation 
of the Sicilian lords and ladies, who were devoted to the 
sweet queen. One of the court ladies, Paulina, the wife 
of Antigonus, hoping to awaken the pity of the king for 
his suffering wife, took the baby princess in her arms, 
and forced her way into the presence of Leontes. 
Paulina was so indignant at the cruelty of the king 
that she lost all fear of his majesty and compelled him 
to listen to her sharp reproaches. She began : — 

322 



Good my liege, I come, — 
And I beseech you, hear me, who professes 
Myself your loyal servant, your physician. 
Your most obedient counsellor, — I say, I come 
From your good queen. 

Leontes. Good queen ! 

Paulina. Good queen, my lord, 

Good queen, I say good queen ; 
And would by combat make her good, so were I 
A man, the worst about you. 

Leontes. Force her hence. 

Paulina. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes 
First hand me ; on my own accord I'll off. 
But first I'll do my errand. — The good queen, 
For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter, — 
Here 'tis, — commends it to your blessing. 

With that the lady Paulina gently laid the baby prin- 
cess at the feet of its father, saying : — 

Look to your babe, my lord ; 'tis yours : 
And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge. 
So like you, 'tis the worse. — Behold, my lords, 
Although the print be little, the whole matter 
And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip. 
The trick of 's frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, 
The pretty dimples on his chin and cheek. 
His smiles. 
The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. 

Leontes v^as so incensed by Paulina's act and words 
that he threatened to have her burnt, and called upon 
the attendants to thrust her out of his presence. Hav- 
ing accomplished her object, Paulina was willing to 

323 



withdraw, but she tarried long enough to tell the 
king : — 

I'll not call you tyrant ; 

But this most cruel usage of your queen 

Not able to produce more accusation 

Than your own weak- hinged fancy, something savors 

Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, 

Yea, scandalous to the world. 

As soon as Paulina left the presence-chamber, Leontes 
commanded Antigonus, her husband, to take the babe, 
which he refused to acknowledge as his own, and to 
carry it to some lonely, desolate place, and there leave 
it exposed to die by hunger or violence. He asked 
Antigonus : — 

What will you adventure 
To save this brat's life? 

Antigonus. Anything, my lord. 
That my ability may undergo 
And nobleness impose ; at least this much : 
I'll pawn the little blood which I have left 
To save the innocent ; — anything possible. 

Leontes. Swear by this sword 
Thou wilt perform my bidding. 

Antigonus. I will, my lord. 

Leontes. Mark and perform it. We enjoin thee, 
As thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry 
This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it 
To some remote and desert place quite out 
Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it, 
Without more mercy, to its own protection 
And favor of the climate. Take it up. 

Antigonus. I swear to do this, though a present death 
324 



Had been more merciful. — Come on, poor babe ; 
Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 
To be thy nurses ! wolves and bears, they say, 
Casting their savageness aside, have done 
Like offices of pity. 

The ship that conveyed Antigonus was, as we know, 
wrecked upon the shore of Bohemia. The act of desert- 
ing the baby princess greatly troubled the conscience of 
Antigonus, but he had not sufficient moral courage to 
dare to disobey his royal master. In leaving the child, 
he thus lamented : — 

Come, poor babe ; 
I have heard, but not beheved, the spirits o' the dead 
May walk again ; if such thing be, thy mother 
Appeared to me last night, for ne'er was dream 
So like a waking. To me comes a creature, 
Sometimes her head on one side, some another ;^in pure 

white robes, 
Like very sanctity, she did approach 
My cabin where I lay ; thrice bowed before me, 
And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 
Became two spouts. The fury spent, anon 
Did this break from her : " Good Antigonus, 
Since fate, against thy better disposition. 
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath. 
Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
There weep and leave it crying ; and, for the babe 
Is counted lost forever, Perdita,^ 
I prithee, call't. For this ungentle business. 
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see 

1 the lost one. 
325 • 



Thy wife Paulina more." And so, with shrieks, 

She melted into air. — Blossom, speed thee well ! 

There He, and there thy character. 

The storm begins. — Weep I cannot. 

But my heart bleeds ; and most accursed am I 

To be by oath enjoined to this. — Farewell ! 

The day frowns more and more ; thou'rt like to have 

A lullaby too rough : I never saw 

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamor ! — 

Well may I get aboard ! — This is the chase ; 

I am gone forever. 

As Antigonus hastened away, he was attacked and 
torn to pieces by a wild beast of the forest. Thus was 
he punished immediately for his cruel deed, but Leontes, 
whose wicked jealousy had caused all this suffering, 
had to sorrow for many years in bitter reproach of con- 
science. 

When the messengers who had been sent to obtain 
the judgment of Apollo returned, the answer of the 
oracle was opened in presence of the assembled court, 
and was read by an officer. Its words were : — 

Hermione is chaste; Pohxenes blameless; Camillo a true 
subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly be- 
gotten ; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is 
lost be not found. 

You would think that this plain answer would have 
convinced Leontes of his error, but he stubbornly re- 
fused to believe the divine message, saying : — 

There is no truth at all in the oracle. 
326 



Nothing but the bitterest sorrow could restore the 
mad king to reason. The first blow fell when his idol- 
ized boy, the little prince Mamillius, died. He was a 
very sensitive, affectionate child, and he had grieved 
himself sick over his father's cruel treatment of his 
dearly loved mother. 

Conceiving the dishonor of his mother, 
He straight declined, drooped, took it deeply, 
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 
And downright languished. 

The report of the death of the young prince was 
brought while the court was still assembled in the 
council-chamber where the judgment of the oracle had 
been read. On hearing the sad news, Leontes at once 
concluded that his son's death was sent in vengeance 
for his rejection of the oracular sentence. He de- 
clared : — 

Apollo's angry ; and the heavens themselves 
Do strike at my injustice. 

At this moment, the agonized queen fainted and was 
carried out in an apparently dying condition. 

Then did King Leontes come to himself, and bitterly 
did he reproach himself for his unfounded jealousy, and 
for his impiety in disbelieving the Delphian oracle. 
In his agony of mind, he made public confession, 
praying : — 

Apollo, pardon 
My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle ! 
I'll reconcile me to Polixenes, 
327 



New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, 

Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy ; 

For, being transported by my jealousies, 

To bloody thoughts and to revenge I chose 

Camillo for the minister to poison 

My friend Pohxenes ; which had been done, 

But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 

My swift command, though I with death and with 

Reward did threaten and encourage him. 

Not doing't and being done. He, most humane, 

And filled with honor, to my kingly guest 

Unclasped my practice, quit his fortunes here, 

Which you knew great, and to the hazard 

Of all incertainties himself commended. 

No richer than his honor. — How he glisters 

Thorough ^ my rust ! and how his piety 

Does my deeds make the blacker ! 

The king's repentance came too late. He could not 
undo with a word the wrongs of which he had been 
guilty. Even while he was promising himself to atone 
for his sins, the queen's faithful attendant Paulina broke 
in upon him with the heart-rending news : — 

— the queen, the queen, 
The sweetest, dearest creature's dead, and vengeance 

for't 
Not dropped down yet. — But, O thou tyrant ! 
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee 
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees 
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter 

1 through. 
328 



In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 
To look that way thou wert. 

Leontes. Go on, go on ! 

Thou canst not speak too much ; I have deserved 
All tongues to talk their bitterest. 

Paulina. Now, good my liege, 
Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman ; 
The love I bore your queen — lo, fool again ! — 
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children ; 
I'll not remember you of my own lord, 
Who is lost too ; take your patience to you. 
And I'll say nothing. 

Leontes. Thou didst speak but well 
When most the truth ; which I receive much better 
Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me 
To the dead bodies of my queen and son : 
One grave shall be for both. Once a day I'll visit 
The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there 
Shall be my recreation ; so long as nature 
Will bear up with this exercise, so long 
I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me 
Unto these sorrows. 



Sixteen years have passed — sad years for King 
Leontes who, in his loneliness, has spent the time in 
mourning over the insane folly v^hich bereft him of wife 
and children. 

And what of the lost babe, — the little Perdita ? She 
has been brought up tenderly, even if poorly, by the 
kind-hearted shepherd who saved her from a cruel 
death. Yet, although no one suspects her noble birth, 
every one who sees her feels that she is more re- 

329 



fined than other shepherd lasses. She carries herself 
with such grace and gentle dignity that it is said of 
her : — 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself, 
Too noble for this place. 

It chanced one day that the young prince Florizel, 
son of the king of Bohemia, in following a pet falcon 
which had flown into the grounds belonging to the old 
shepherd, saw the beautiful Perdita, and immediately fell 
in love with her. After that he came often, and wooed 
the pretty maiden in honorable, manly fashion, not de- 
ceiving her as to his own princely birth, but assuring 
her that she was, in grace of manner, the equal of any 
princess, and declaring that, when he should be king, 
he should be proud to acknowledge her as his queen. 

The old shepherd did not suspect that Perdita's lover 
was the king's son, for if he had knowingly encouraged 
a prince to woo his adopted daughter, he would have 
deserved very severe punishment. 

The father of Prince Florizel was the same Polixenes 
who had so narrowly escaped from the jealous rage of 
Leontes. The lord Camillo, whose warning had saved 
Polixenes, was beginning to pine for his native land, 
which he had not seen in all these years. But Polixenes 
was unwilHng to part with Camillo, and he urged him : — 

As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy 
services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine 

330 



own goodness hath made ; better not to have had thee than 
thus to want thee. Of that fatal country, Siciha, prithee speak 
no more ; whose very naming punishes me with the remem- 
brance of that penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled 
king, my brother ; whose loss of his most precious queen and 
children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when 
sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? 

Camillo. Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What 
his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown ; but I have 
missingly noted, he is of late much retired from court, and is 
less frequent in his princely exercises than formerly he hath 
appeared. 

Florizel's frequent absences had excited the suspicions 
of his father v^ho, by inquiry, had found out, as he pro- 
ceeded to tell Camillo : — 

He is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd ; a 
man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagi- 
nation of his neighbors, is grown into an unspeakable estate. 

It seems that the gold which he had found with Per- 
dita, and which he took to be a gift of the fairies, the 
shepherd had used in buying land and flocks, so that 
he was far richer than his neighbors. 

In sheep-growing countries, it was formerly the cus- 
tom to celebrate the close of sheep-shearing with a 
general feast for the entire country-side. On these 
festival occasions, the prettiest shepherdess was chosen 
queen of the festival, and it was her duty to welcome 
the guests. 

The sheep-shearing feast being just at hand, PoHxenes 
and Camillo disguised themselves and went with the 

331 



country people to the home of the old shepherd. Prince 
Florizel, also disguised, was there before them. When 
he saw Perdita attired as queen of the festival, he told 
her : — 

These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
Do give a life ; no shepherdess, but Flora 
Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing 
Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
And you the queen on't. 

The old shepherd, seeing that Perdita's modesty pre- 
vents her from taking the lead in the mirth, chides her, 
saying : — 

Fie, daughter ! when my old wife lived, upon 
This day she was both pantler,^ butler, cook, 
Both dame and servant ; welcomed all, served all ; 
Would sing her song and dance her turn ; now here. 
At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle. 
You are retired. 

As if you were a feasted one, and not 
The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid 
These unknown friends to's welcome ; for it is 
A way to make us better friends, more known. 
Come, quench your blushes and present yourself 
That which you are, mistress o' the feast ; come on, 
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 
As your good flock shall prosper. 

Perdita. It is my father's will I should take on me 
The hostess-ship o' the day. — You're welcome. 
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Reverend sirs, 
For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep 
Seeming and savor all the winter long : 

1 The one who had charge of the pantry. 



Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
And welcome to our shearing ! 

PoLiXENES. Shepherdess, — 

A fair one are you — well you fit our ages 
With flowers of winter. 

And now fair Perdita turns to her lover, telling him 
that only spring-time blossoms befit his youth — 

— daffodils. 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength ; bold oxlips and 
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds. 
The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack. 
To make you garlands of. 

Florizel, enchanted with her graceful playfulness, 
exclaims : — 

What you do 
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
I'd have you do it ever ; when you sing, 
I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms. 
Pray so ; and, for the ordering of your affairs. 
To sing them too : when you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that ; move still, still so. 
And own no other function. Each your doing. 
So singular in each particular. 
Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, 
That all your acts are queens. 
But come ; our dance, I pray : 

333 



Your hand, my Perdita ; so turtles pair, 
That never mean to part. 

After watching the dancers for a time, Polixenes grew 
impatient, and said to Camillo : — 

'Tis time to part them. 

Although he was himself charmed with Perdita's 
beauty and sweet modesty, he was very angry because 
his son had stooped, as he thought, to make love to a 
low-born maiden. So he abruptly made himself known 
to the company, harshly reproved his son, declared that 
he would have the shepherd hanged as a traitor, and 
threatened poor Perdita with a cruel death, if she should 
again receive the prince as her lover. 

Even in her distress, Perdita's native dignity and self- 
respect asserted themselves, for, as the wrathful king 
was departing, she said : — 

I was not much afeard ; for once or twice 
I was about to speak and tell him plainly, 
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
Looks on all ahke. 

Then she nobly begs the prince : — 

Will't please you, sir, begone ? 
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you, 
Of your own state take care ; this dream of mine, 
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther, 
But milk my ewes and weep. 

But Prince Florizel's love was true, and his belief in 
Perdita's nobility of nature was perfect ; therefore he 

334 



felt that it would be base in him to renounce his love, 
even at the command of his father. He assured Per- 
dita of his willingness to give up his expectation of suc- 
ceeding to the crown, if need be, for the sake of her 
love. 

Florizel. Why look you so upon me ? 
I am sorry, not afeard ; delayed, 
But nothing altered. What I was, I am. 

Perdita. How often have I told you 'twould be 
thus ! 
How often said, my dignity would last 
But till 'twere known ! 

Florizel. It cannot fail but by 

The violation of my faith. Lift up thy looks : 
From my succession wipe me, father ; I 
Am heir to my affection. 

To Camillo, who still remained, he added : — 

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
Be thereat gleaned, for all the sun sees or 
The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides 
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
To this my fair beloved : therefore, I pray you, 
As you have ever been my father's honored friend, 
When he shall miss me,' — as, in faith, I mean not 
To see him any more, — cast your good counsels 
Upon his passion ; let myself and fortune 
Tug for the time to come. This you may know 
And so deliver, — I am put to sea 
With her whom here I cannot hold on shore ; 
And most opportune to our need I have 
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared 
For this design. What course I mean to hold 

335 



Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 
Concern me the reporting. 

Seeing that the prince was determined, Camillo thought 
that he might aid him and, at the same time, further his 
own plans. So he suggested that the lovers should go to 
the Sicilian court and tell King Leontes that the son of 
Polixenes had come with his bride to visit the friend of his 
father's boyhood. Camillo also offered to provide every- 
thing that was needed to enable them to appear before 
Leontes in a manner befitting Florizel's princely rank. 

In thus abetting the flight of the lovers, Camillo was 
not so disinterested as he might seem to be. For, as 
soon as they were well on their way, the crafty courtier 
told Polixenes of their escape, and whither they were 
bound. This he did, hoping that his own longing to 
revisit his native land might be gratified, as he felt cer- 
tain of being asked to accompany Polixenes in his pur- 
suit of the fugitives. 

Fair winds speedily conveyed the lovers to the island 
of Sicily. They were cordially welcomed by Leontes, 
who was eager to atone for his former wicked plot 
against the life of Polixenes by royally entertaining the 
son of his friend. 

Perdita's rare beauty and sweetness won from Sicilian 
courtiers extravagant praise, they calling her — 

The most peerless piece of earth, 
That e'er the sun shone bright on. 

In looking upon the beautiful pair, Leontes wa;s dis- 
tracted between admiration for their nobleness and sad 

336 



regret for what he himself had lost. Florizel so closely 
resembled his father as Leontes had known him that he 

exclaimed : — 

Were I but twenty-one, 
Your father's image is so hit in you, 
His very air, that I should call you brother, 
As I did him. Most dearly welcome ! 
And your fair princess, — goddess ! — O, alas ! 
I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth 
Might thus have stood begetting wonder as 
You, gracious couple, do ; and then I lost — 
All mine own folly — the society. 
Amity too, of your brave father, whom. 
Though bearing misery, I desire my life 
Once more to look on him. 

Florizel. By his command 

Have I here touched Siciha, and from him 
Give you all greetings that a king, at friend. 
Can send his brother : and, but infirmity 
Which waits upon worn times hath something seized 
His wished ability, he had himself 
The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his 
Measured to look upon you ; whom he loves — 
He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres 
And those that bear them living. 

Florizel' s falsehood could not long remain undiscov- 
ered ; for Polixenes, accompanied by Camillo, followed 
close upon the path of the fleeing lovers. As soon as 
he landed in Sicily, the angry father sent a messenger 

to tell Leontes : — 

Please you, great sir, 
Bohemia greets you from himself by me ; 
Desires you to attach his son, who has — 
z 337 



His dignity and duty both cast off — 

Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with 

A shepherd's daughter. 

Leontes. Where's Bohemia? speak. 

Messenger. Here in your city ; I now came from him. 
I speak amazedly ; and it becomes 
My marvel and my message. To your court 
Whiles he was hastening, in the chase, it seems, 
Of this fair couple, meets he on the way 
The father of this seeming lady and 
Her brother, having both their country quitted 
With this young prince. 

Florizel. Camillo has betrayed me ; 
Whose honor and whose honesty till now 
Endured all weathers. 

Messenger. Lay't so to his charge ; 

He's with the king your father. 

Leontes. Who? Camillo? 

Messenger. Camillo, sir ; I spake with him ; who now 
Has these poor men in question. Never saw I 
Wretches so quake ; they kneel, they kiss the earth, 
Forswear themselves as often as they speak : 
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them 
With divers deaths in death. 

From the account given by the messenger we learn 
that the poor old shepherd, who had gotten into such 
sore trouble by pretending to be the father of Perdita, 
had hidden himself in the vessel which had brought the 
lovers to Sicily. He was now very desirous of getting 
an opportunity to tell the truth concerning his finding 
the babe, the secret of which he had kept for sixteen 
years. This opportunity was granted by Leontes, who 

338 



had discovered that Perdita strongly resembled his lost 
queen Hermione. Through all the years of his mourn- 
ing, the repentant king had cherished the hope held out 
by the oracle that, some day, his lost heir would be 
found. Therefore he was very anxious to hear the 
shepherd's tale. 

Great was the excitement at the Sicilian court when 
the story was told. The courtiers who did not hap- 
pen to be present at the time were eager to get all the 
particulars from those who had heard the tale. In the 
square before the king's palace, where a crowd quickly 
gathered, one gentleman was heard to declare : — 

The oracle is fulfilled ; the king's daughter is found. Such 
a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad- 
makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady 
Paulina's steward ; he can deliver more. — How goes it now, 
sir? this news which is called true is so like an old tale, that 
the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his 
heir? 

Steward. Most true ; that which you hear you'll swear you 
see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen 
Hermione's, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of 
Antigonus found with it which they know to be his character, 
the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the 
affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, 
and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be 
the king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings? 

Gentleman. No. 

Steward. Then have you lost a sight which was to be seen, 
cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy 
crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow 
wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. Our 

339 



king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found 
daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries, " O, thy 
mother, thy mother ! " then asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then 
embraces his son-in-law ; now he thanks the old shepherd, 
which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings' 
reigns. I nev^er heard of such another encounter, which lames 
report to follow it and undoes description to do it. 

Gentleman. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that car- 
ried hence the child? 

Steward. Like an old tale still. He was torn in pieces with 
a bear : this avouches the shepherd's son ; w4io has not only 
his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a hand- 
kerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. 

Gentleman. What became of his bark and his followers ? 

Steward. Wracked the same instant of their master's death, 
and in the view of the shepherd : so that all the instruments 
that aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was 
found. But O, the noble combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow 
was fought in Paulina ! She had one eye declined for the loss 
of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled ; 
she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in em- 
bracing, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no 
more be in danger of losing. 

Gentleman. The dignity of this act was worth the audience 
of kings and princes ; for by such was it acted. 

Only one thing was lacking to make Perdita's happi- 
ness complete ; she longed for the dear mother whose 
face she had never seen. So when the Lady Paulina 
told her that she had a lifelike statue of Hermione, 
carved by a famous Italian sculptor, Perdita desired to 
see it immediately. Leontes, who had not yet been 
shown the statue, accompanied his newly found daughter, 

340 



and with them came PoUxenes and Florizel, and the 
great lords of the Sicihan court. 

As they entered the private chapel where, Paulina 
told them, the statue was kept, Leontes said : — 

O Paulina, 
We honor you with trouble : but we came 
To see the statue of our queen ; your gallery 
Have we passed through, not without much content 
In many singularities, but we saw not 
That which my daughter came to look upon, 
The statue of her mother. 

Paulina. As she lived peerless, 

So her dead likeness, I do well believe. 
Excels whatever yet you looked upon 
Or hand of man hath done ; therefore I keep it 
Lonely, apart. But here it is ; prepare 
To see the life as lively mocked as ever 
Still sleep mocked death. Behold, and say 'tis well. 

At the first sight of the wonderful image, Leontes, 
overcome by grief and remorse, was unable to speak ; 
but when Paulina asked him if it were not a true like- 
ness of the queen, he replied : — 

Her natural posture ! — 
Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed 
Thou art Hermione ; or rather, thou art she 
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender 
As infancy and grace. — But yet, PauHna, 
Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing 
So aged as this seems. 

Paulina. So much the more our carver's excellence ; 
Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her 
As she lived now. 

341 



Leontes. As now she might have done, 
So much to my good comfort, as it is 
Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, 
Even with such hfe of majesty, warm hfe. 
As now it coldly stands, when first I wooed her ! 
I am ashamed ; does not the stone rebuke me 
For being more stone than it? — O royal piece ! 
There's magic in thy majesty. 

As Leontes continued to gaze upon the beautiful fig- 
ure, he was almost persuaded that it had life. Seeing 
his amazement and longing, Paulina told him that she 
could make the statue move. Then, at her command, 
sweet music sounded, and the statue was seen to be 
descending the steps of the pedestal. In a moment, the 
bewildered Leontes was clasping to his heart the living 
Hermione, whom the faithful Paulina had kept in con- 
cealment all these years, awaiting the day when the oracle 
should be fulfilled in the finding of the lost princess. 

And now the gentle Perdita kneels to crave a mother's 
blessing, saying : — 

Dear queen, that ended when I but began. 
Give me that hand of yours to kiss. 

Hermione. You gods, look down 

And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
Upon my daughter's head ! — Tell me, mine own. 
Where hast thou been preserved? where lived? how 

found 
Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I, 
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 
Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved 
Myself to see the issue. 

342 



Paulina. There's time enough for that. 

Leontes. Let's from this place. — 
What ! look upon my brother. — Both your pardons, 
That e'er I put between your holy looks 
My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law 
And son unto the king, whom heavens directing, 
Is troth-plight to your daughter. 

And so, at last, it happily came about that the sad 
errors, caused by the evil suspicions of Leontes, were 
forgiven and forgotten in the general rejoicings over 
the wedding festivities of Florizel and his peerless 
Perdita. 



343 



KING LEAR 



KING LEAR 

In the early days of Britain, a king named Lear ruled 
the country for many years. In his old age, King Lear 
grew tired of managing the affairs of his warlike king- 
dom, so he decided to shift the charge of government 
upon his three daughters. Goneril, the eldest, was mar- 
ried to the Duke of Albany ; the second daughter, 
Regan, was the wife of the Duke of Cornwall. Cor- 
delia, the youngest, was still unmarried, but there were 
several suitors for her hand, and Lear thought that, 
with the third of a kingdom for a dower, a desirable 
husband could easily be found for her. 

The old king assembled his court, in order that there 
might be a large number of witnesses to his liberality in 
thus bestowing his lands upon his children while he was 
yet living. The act by which King Lear deprived him- 
self of all authority and made himself wholly dependent 
upon his daughters cannot be regarded as wise, and he 
certainly showed great ignorance of human nature in 
the course he took. For he thought that the daughter 
who professed her love the most extravagantly had the 
truest affection for him, not seeming to understand that 
he was really offering a bribe when he asked his children 
to say in public how much they each loved him. 

347 



Taking in his hand a map of his kingdom, he told 
the court : — 

Know that we have divided 
In three our kingdom ; and 'tis our fast intent 
To shake all cares and business from our age, 
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we 
Unburthened crawl toward death. — Our son of Cornwall, — 
And you, our no less loving son of Albany, 
We have this hour a constant will to pubHsh 
Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife 
May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, 
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, 
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, 
And here are to be answered. — Tell me, my daughters 
Since now we will divest us both of rule. 
Interest of territory, cares of state, 
Which of you shall we say doth love us most ? 
That we our largest bounty may extend 
Where nature doth with merit challenge. — Goneril, 
Our eldest-born, speak first. 

Goneril. Sir, I love you more than word can wield the 
matter ; 
Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty ; 
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare ; 
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor ; 
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable ; 
Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 

Lear, who beheved that Goneril meant all that she 
said, was delighted with this extreme expression of love, 
and pointing to the map, he said : — 

Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, 
With shadowy forests and with champaigns riched, 

348 



With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, 

We make thee lady. — What says our second daughter, 

Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall ? 

Regan. I am made of that self metal as my sister, 
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
I find she names my very deed of love ; 
Only she comes too short : that I profess 
Myself an enemy to all other joys 
Which the most precious square of sense professes, 
And find I am alone felicitate 
In your dear highness' love. 

The king was no less pleased with Regan's extrava- 
gant words than he had been with her sister's, and he 
told her : — 

To thee and thine hereditary ever 
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, 
No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
Than that conferred on Goneril. 

Lear now turned to his youngest and his favorite 
daughter, Cordelia, expecting that she would go beyond 
her sisters in expressing her love for him ; but Cordelia 
although she loved her father tenderly, was too sincere 
to imitate her sisters' excessive protestations of love. 
So, when the foolish old king sought to induce her 
to outdo her sisters, by promising her a third much 
richer than those he had given the others, Cordelia re- 
plied that she loved him as a true daughter should, but 
certainly not more than she should love her husband, 
if she should marry. It grieved her to disappoint her 
father, but she must be true to herself. She said : — 

349 



I obey you, love you, and most honor you. 

Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 

They love you all? Haply when I shall wed, 

That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry 

Half my love with him, half my care and duty. 

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 

To love my father all. 

Lear. But goes thy heart with this ? 

Cordelia. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. So young, and so untender? 

Cordelia. So young, my lord, and true. 

The weak old king was so angered by Cordelia's 
quiet answers that he was blind to the truth that hers 
was the sincere affection, and that his elder daughters 
had flattered him for the sake of their own advantage. 
In his rage, he cast Cordelia off, forever, as he said, and 
divided the land which he had intended for her between 
her two sisters, to whom, with their husbands, he gave 
the rule of the entire kingdom. 

He retained the empty title of king for himself, and 
in order that he might be suitably attended, he declared 
that he would keep one hundred knights in constant at- 
tendance upon his person ; these knights, together with 
himself, to be supported by Goneril and Regan. He 
added that he would spend a month in turn at the re- 
spective homes of his two elder daughters, whom he 
thus made his hostesses. All this he thus provided : — 

I do invest you jointly with my power. 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, 
With reservation of an hundred knights, 

350 



By you to be sustained, shall our abode 

Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain 

The name and all the addition of a king ; 

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, 

Beloved sons, be yours : which to confirm, 

This coronet part between you. 

At this point Kent, a noble earl, who was deeply at- 
tached to his master, and who understood the real truth of 
Cordelia and the falseness of her sisters, interposed : — 

Royal Lear, 
Whom I have ever honored as my king. 
Loved as my father, as my master followed, 
As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 

Lear. The bow is bent and drawn ; make from the shaft. 

Kent. What wouldst thou do, old man? 
Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak 
When power to flattery bows ? To plainness honor's bound, 
When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state. 
And in thy best consideration check 
This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment. 
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; 
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound 
Reverbs no hollowness. 

Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more ! 

Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
To wage against thy enemies, nor fear to lose it, 
Thy safety being the motive. 

Lear. Out of my sight ! 

Kent's interference almost maddened the king, and 
as he still persisted in begging Lear to take back what 
he had just done, and would not be silent, Lear banished 

351 



the faithful Kent, saying that, if at the end of ten days, 
he was found in the kingdom, he should be put to death. 
Kent departed from the court with these words of fare- 
well : — 

Fair thee well, king ; sith ' thus thou wilt appear, 
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. — 

Then, turning to Cordelia : — 

The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, 
That justly think'st and hast most rightly said ! 

Lear now called upon the two suitors for Cordelia's 
hand, who were waiting at the court, to say whether 
they were willing to marry a wife who had no dower 
but truth. 

The Duke of Burgundy declined to marry a portion- 
less princess, but the King of France, when appealed 
to, said that Cordelia was herself a dowry, and that he 
prized her all the more because of her freedom from all 
falsity ; so he espoused her in these words : — 

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor, 

Most choice, forsaken, and most loved, despised, 

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon ; 

Thy dower] ess daughter, king, thrown to my chance, 

Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. 

Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy 

Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. — 

Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind ; 

Thou losest here, a better where to find. 

In parting from her sisters, Cordelia told them : — 

1 since. 



Ye jewels of our father, with washed eyes 

Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are, 

And, like a sister, am most loath to call 

Your faults as they are named. Love well our father. 

To your professed bosoms I commit him ; 

But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 

I would prefer him to a better place. 

Time shall unfold what phghted cunning hides ; 

Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. 

Well may you prosper ! 

It was not long until Lear, a king now only in name, 
had bitter cause to regret his mistaken course. Goneril, 
with whom he took up his abode for the first month, 
was very impatient with what she chose to consider the 
disorderly pranks of her father's attendant knights, and 
she sharply reproached Lear for the misconduct of his 
followers. She even went so far as to demand that he 
should discharge half of his attendants, declaring : — 

Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires ; 

Men so disordered, so deboshed ^ and bold, 

That this our court, infected with their manners, 

Shows like a riotous inn. The shame itself doth speak 

For instant remedy. Be then desired 

By her, that else will take the thing she begs, 

A little to disquantity your train ; 

And the remainder, that shall still depend, 

To be such men as may besort your age, 

Which know themselves and you. 

Lear. Are you our daughter? 

Goneril. Come, sir, 

I would you would make use of that good wisdom 

1 debauched. 
2 A 353 



Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away 
These dispositions which of late transport you 
From what you rightly are. 

Lear, amazed at Goneril's complaints, begs some one 
to tell him who he is, whereupon his court jester answers 
shrewdly, " Lear's shadow." The old king, who now, 
perforce, sees that there was no truth in Goneril's pro- 
fessions of love for him, sadly laments the blindness 
that led him to cast off the faithful Cordelia ; but he 
bethinks himself that he has yet another daughter, and 
he determines to go to Regan immediately. He 
wails : — 

Woe, that too late repents. — Prepare my horses. 

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend. 

More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child 

Than the sea-monster. — Ha ! is it come to this? 

Let it be so. I have another daughter. 

Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable. 

Lear thinks that, when Regan hears how unkindly 
Goneril has treated him, she will sympathize with him 
and share his wrath toward her elder sister. So he 
leaves Goneril with the wish that she may suffer as she 
has made him suffer, and that she may learn — 

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child. 

When Kent left the court under sentence of banish- 
ment, he foresaw what griefs were likely to come to 
Lear through the ingratitude of his daughters ; so he 
decided to disguise himself as a common servant, and 

354 



remain where he could assist his old master in case of 
need. 

Lear, not suspecting who he was, took Kent into his 
service, and it was he who, at Lear's command, went 
before to inform Regan of her father's intention of visit- 
ing her immediately. The wicked Goneril had also sent 
a messenger, named Oswald, to urge her sister to follow 
her example in requiring their father to reduce the num- 
ber of his attendants. 

Regan was even more cruel than Goneril, and she, 
with her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, hastily left 
their home, so that when her poor distressed father 
should arrive, he could not find shelter. 

They betook themselves to the castle of one of the 
great nobles, the Earl of Gloster, and there the two mes- 
sengers, Oswald and Kent, found them. Before either 
messenger had been admitted, however, the two met 
outside the castle, and Kent, knowing that Oswald was 
secretly trying to injure the king, his master, picked 
a quarrel with Oswald, and was soundly beating him 
when Cornwall and Regan appeared upon the scene. 

Oswald told his story and demanded that Kent should 
be punished. Regan cared nothing that her father's 
servant should be unjustly treated, but she was very 
desirous of pleasing her unfilial sister, so Kent was put 
in the stocks and made to sit there, unable to move, all 
day and all night. There he was found by Lear, who 
had followed Regan and Cornwall, thinking it strange 
that they should leave home when they knew that he 
was about to visit them. He was still more amazed to 

355 



find that they had dared to put his servant in the stocks. 
He exclaimed indignantly : — 

They durst not do't ; 
They could not, would not, do't ; 'tis worse than murther 
To do upon respect such violent outrage. 
Resolve me with all modest haste which way 
Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage. 
Coming from us. 

Kent. My lord, when at their home 

I did commend your highness' letters to them. 
Ere I was risen from the place that showed 
My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post. 
Stewed in his haste, half breathless, panting forth 
From Goneril his mistress salutations ; 
Delivered letters, spite of intermission, 
Which presently they read : on whose contents 
They summoned up their meiny,^ straight took horse. 
Commanded me to follow, and attend 
The leisure of their answer, gave me cold looks ; 
And meeting here the other messenger. 
Whose welcome I perceived had poisoned mine — 
Having more man than wit about me, drew : 
He raised the house with loud and coward cries. 
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth 
The shame which here it suffers. 

Lear. Where is this daughter? 

Kent. With the earl, sir, here within. 

Lear then demanded to speak with Regan, but she 
scornfully refused even to see the father who had be- 
stowed half his kingdom upon her. When the Duke 
of Gloster brought the ungrateful daughter's answer, the 

1 retinue, attendants. 
356 



old king could not believe that she would so mistreat 
him. He said to Gloster : — 

Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? 
They have travelled all the night? — 
Fetch me a better answer. 

Gloster. My dear lord, 

You know the fiery quality of the duke ; 
How unremovable and fixed he is 
In his own course. 

Lear. Vengeance ! plague ! death ! confiision ! 
Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloster, Gloster, 
I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. 

Gloster. Well, my good lord, I have informed them so. 

Lear. Informed them ? Dost thou understand me, man ? 

Gloster. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. The king would speak with Cornwall ; the dear 
father 
Would with his daughter speak, commands her service. 
Are they informed of this ? My breath and blood ! 
Fiery? the fiery duke? Tell the hot duke that — 
No, but not yet ; may be he is not well. 
Infirmity doth still neglect all office 
Whereto our health is bound ; we are not ourselves 
When nature being oppressed commands the mind 
To suffer with the body. I'll forbear ; 
Give me my servant forth. 

Go tell the duke and's wife I'd speak with them. 
Now, presently ; bid them come forth and hear me. 
Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum 
Till it cry sleep to death. 

In response to this urgent pleading, Regan and 
Cornwall appeared at length, but only to chide the 

357 



king when he complained of Goneril's ill-treatment of 
him : — 

Regan. I cannot think my sister in the least 
Would fail her obligation ; if, sir, perchance 
She have restrained the riots of your followers, 
'Tis on such ground and to such wholesome end 
As clears her from all blame. 

Lear. My curses on her ! 

Regan. O, sir, you are old ; 

Nature in you stands on the very verge 
Of her confine : you should be ruled and led 
By some discretion that discerns your state 
Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you 
That to our sister you do make return ; 
Say you have wronged her, sir. 

Lear. Ask her forgiveness? 

Do you but mark how this becomes the house : 
"Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; 
Age is unnecessary : on my knees I beg 
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food." 

Regan. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks. 
Return you to my sister. 

Lear. Never, Regan ! 

She hath abated me of half my train, 
Looked black upon me, strook ^ me with her tongue. 
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. 

Crazed with the sense of his cruel wrongs, Lear now 
invoked the vengeance of Heaven upon the unfilial 
Goneril ; but even while he was cursing her for her in- 
gratitude, Goneril approached, she having come to urge 
her sister to join her in stripping their father of all 
kingly dignities. 

1 struck, wounded. 



Regan greeted her hard-hearted sister with a show 
of warm affection, and harshly told her father that, if 
he would dismiss half his train and return with Goneril, 
he might come to her at the end of the month. Lear 
replied that, rather than submit to such conditions, he 
would beg an asylum with the king of France, who had 
married the dowerless Cordelia. 

When Regan saw that her father was so determined, 
she not only refused to receive him with his hundred 
knights, but she went even farther than her unfeeling 
sister had done, declaring that, before she would receive 
him, Lear must still further reduce the number of his 
attendants to twenty-five. Upon this, the poor old 
father pleaded pathetically : — 

I gave you all — 

Regan. And in good time you gave it. 

Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ; 
But kept a reservation to be followed 
With such a number. What, must I come to you 
With five and twenty, Regan ? said you so ? 

Regan. And speak't again, my lord; no more with me. 

Finding that Regan was even harder upon him than 
her sister, Lear told Goneril that he would go with her. 
But the selfish, unfilial Goneril wounded him more 
deeply than ever, by saying : — 

Hear me, my lord ; 
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five, 
To follow in a house where twice so many 
Have a command to tend you? 

Regan. What need one ? 

359 



Lear. O, reason not the need ; our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest thing superfluous. 
Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
Man's Hfe is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; 
If only to go warm were gorgeous, 
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st. 
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But for true need, — 
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! 
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
As full of grief as age ; wretched in both. 
I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws. 
Or ere I'll weep. — O fool, I shall go mad ! 

With this word Lear, followed by the faithful fool 
and by Kent, who had been released from the stocks, 
rushed out into the night. A heavy storm was rising, 
but wind and rain seemed less cruel to the suffering 
king than the ingratitude of his heartless daughters. 
The Earl of Gloster sought in vain to awaken their pity 
for their father, telling them : — 

Alack ! the night comes on, and the high winds 
Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about 
There's scarce a bush. 

Regan. O, sir, to wilful men 

The injuries that they themselves procure 
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. — 

and Cornwall added : — 

Shut up your doors, my lord ; 'tis a wild night : 
My Regan counsels well. Come out o' the storm. 

It was, indeed, a wild night: — how wild, we learn 
from these words of Kent's: — 

360 



Since I was man, 
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, 
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
Remember to have heard. 

It is little wonder that Lear, when driven out into 
the fearful tempest, should really lose his reason. His 
wild cries were pitiful to hear : — 

Spit, fire ! spout, rain ! 
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. 
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 
I never gave you kingdom, called you children. 
You owe me no subscription : then let fall 
Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man. 
But yet I call you servile ministers. 
That will with two pernicious daughters join 
Your high-engendered battles 'gainst a head 
So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul ! 
In such a night 

To shut me out ! Pour on ; I will endure. 
In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril ! 
Your kind old father, whose frank heart gave all, — 
O, that way madness lies ! let me shun that ; 
No more of that ! . . . Let the great gods. 
That keep this dreadful pudder -^ o'er our heads, 
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch 
That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 
Unwhipped of justice. I am a m-an 
More sinned against than sinning. 

In the course of their wanderings over the heath, 
they came upon a wretched hovel, in which Kent per- 

1 tumult. 
361 



suaded the king to take shelter. Upon entering, they 
found another there before them. It seemed to be 
some poor body who had lost his wits. Lear imagined 
that nothing but the unkindness of daughters could 
have brought the poor fellow to such a pass. He 
asked : — 

Didst thou give all to thy daughters? And art thou come 
to this? Couldst thou save nothing? Wouldst thou give 
'em all? 

In seeing the misery of this " Poor Tom," as he called 
himself, and in hearing his wild words, King Lear's pity 
was awakened, and in sympathy for the sufferings of 
another, he almost forgot his own- — only for a moment, 
however. To Lear's grief-crazed brain, " Poor Tom " 
seemed to be a learned judge who was to try his hard- 
hearted daughters. In plaintive tones he complained of 
their cruel treatment, until, at last, blessed sleep came to 
his relief. 

Although the kind-hearted Earl of Gloster could not 
prevent the merciless Regan from turning her old father 
out into the storm, he resolved to aid the king secretly. 
So he traced the steps of the party to the miserable 
hovel, and had them removed to a comfortable farm-house 
on his own estate. But when he once more begged 
permission to relieve the king's necessities, Regan and 
Cornwall took from him the use of his own castle, and 
charged him " on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither 
to speak of the king, entreat for him, or any way sus- 
tain him." 

362 



Soon afterward, having learned that the unnatural 
daughters were even plotting to put their father to 
death, Gloster warned the faithful Kent, who was still 
caring for his suffering master, and together they man- 
aged to convey King Lear to the port of Dover, which 
is just across the channel from France, and in Kent's 
own earldom. This they did in order to meet Cordelia, 
who had heard how wickedly her sisters were abusing 
their father, and was coming with a French army to the 
aid of the king. 

The Earl of Gloster had a son, named Edmund, who 
was as disloyal to him as were Lear's two elder daugh- 
ters to their father. Hoping to gain favor for himself, 
Edmund reported to Cornwall and Regan what Gloster 
had done to assist the king. For this reason, as soon 
as Gloster returned, he was cruelly tortured by order of 
Cornwall, and was made to confess that he had sent 
Lear to Dover. In reply to Regan's question — ''Where- 
fore to Dover .? " — Gloster said : — 

Because I would not see thy cruel nails 

Pluck out his poor old eyes, nor thy fierce sister 

In his anointed flesh stick boorish fangs. 

The sea, with such a storm as his bare head 

In hell-black night endured, would have buoyed up, 

And quenched the stell^d ^ fires ; 

Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. 

If wolves had at thy gate howled that stern time 

Thou shouldst have said, " Good porter, turn the key, 

All cruels else subscribe." But I shall see 

1 starry. 



The winged vengeance overtake such children. 
Cornwall. See't shalt thou never. 

Whereupon, in order to make his words good, the 
fiendish Cornwall tore out both Gloster's eyes ; but he 
was overtaken by swift punishment, being slain by a 
faithful servant, who attacked him in revenge for his 
cruel treatment of Gloster. 

The Duke of Albany, husband of Goneril, did not 
join in the unkind usage of King Lear, but yet, when 
the country was invaded by the French army, he felt it 
his duty to defend his kingdom. After the death of 
Cornwall, Regan deputed Edmund, the evil-minded son 
of Gloster, to lead her division of the British troops to 
do battle with the French. 

This made Goneril jealous, for she also was fond of 
Edmund. The ambitious Edmund tried to please both 
sisters, hoping that, through the favor of one of them, 
he might himself, in time, become ruler of the king- 
dom. 

When Cordelia read a letter which Kent had sent her 
to inform her of the wrongs inflicted upon her father, 
she was so deeply moved that : — • 

Once or twice she heaved the name of father 

Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart ; 

Cried " Sisters ! sisters ! Shame of ladies ! sisters- ! 

Kent ! father ! sisters ! What, i' the storm? i' the night? 

Let pity not be believed 1 " There she shook 

The holy water from her heavenly eyes, 

And, clamor-moistened, then away she started 

To deal with grief alone. 

364 



As we already know, France immediately despatched 
an army into Britain to avenge the wrongs done to 
King Lear. Cordelia could not have consented to in- 
vade her native land for any other cause ; but she 
said : — 

O dear father, 

It is thy business that I go about ; 

Therefore great France 

My mourning and important ^ tears hath pitied. 

No blown ambition doth our arms incite, 

But love, dear love, and our aged father's right ; 

Soon may I see and hear him ! 

When Cordelia landed at Dover, and learned that her 
poor crazed father was wandering about, wearing a 
wreath made of nettles and other weeds of the field, 
which he had woven into something resembling a crown, 
she offered the physicians all she had if they could 
restore his reason. 

To heal his wounded mind completely was beyond 
their power, but by the use of calming potions, they 
succeeded in soothing him to quiet sleep. While he 
was asleep, he was clothed in fresh garments, and soft 
music was played in the hope that it might have 
restoring influence. Cordelia prayed, as she kissed her 
father : — 

O my dear father ! Restoration hang 
Thy medicine on my hps, and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 

1 urgent. 
365 



Had you not been their father, these white flakes 

Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face 

To be opposed against the warring winds ? 

To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder? 

In the most terrible and nimble stroke 

Of quick, cross hghtning? Mine enemy's dog, 

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 

Against my fire ; and wast thou fain, poor father, 

To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, 

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack ! 

'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once 

Had not concluded all. 

When Lear opened his eyes, and saw his beloved 
daughter bending over him, he thought that he was in 
heaven, and that she was a ministering angel. Then, as 
Cordelia knelt and implored his blessing, he said : — 

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair dayhght? 
I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity 
To see another thus. I know not what to say. 
I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see ; 
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
Of my condition. 

Cordelia. O, look upon me, sir. 

And hold your hands in benediction o'er me. 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me. 

I am a very foohsh, fond old man. 
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less ; 
And, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you and know this man; 
Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant 

366 



What place this is, and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments, nor I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me ; 
For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

Cordelia. And so I am, I am. 

Lear. Be your tears wet? yes, faith. I pray, 
weep not. 
If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 
I know you do not love me, for your sisters 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong ; 
You have some cause, they have not. 

Cordelia. No cause, no cause. 

Lear. Am I in France? 

Cordelia. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Will't please your highness walk? 

Lear. You must bear with me. Pray you now, 
Forget and forgive : I am old and foolish. 

In the battle that was fought between the French and 
British forces, the British were victorious, and both Lear 
and Cordelia were taken prisoners. The wicked Ed- 
mund, without the knowledge of the Duke of Albany, 
bribed the jailer to put the aged father and his faithful 
daughter to death in the prison. 

But such wickedness as Edmund's could not go un- 
punished. He was accused of treason by the Duke of 
Albany, and was slain in a hand-to-hand combat with 
his own brother, who thus avenged the wrong done to 
their father, the Earl of Gloster. 

When the prison officer attempted to hang Cordelia, 
in accordance with the instructions of Edmund, Lear, 

367 



broken though he was, had strength enough left to strike 
down the officer, but he was too late to save the life of 
Cordelia; and, overcome with grief and suffering, the 
broken-hearted Lear died, holding in his arms the 
daughter whose truth and faithfulness he, at last, 
understood. 



368 



OTHELLO 



OTHELLO 

Several centuries ago, the Republic of Venice was 
a great power among nations. But Venice had many 
enemies. The Turks were active rivals, and, on one 
pretext or another, they would often attack its island 
dependencies. Under these circumstances, Venice em- 
ployed many foreign soldiers. 

One of the most distinguished of these foreign mer- 
cenaries was a Moorish general, named Othello, who, 
because of his valiant deeds in their service, had become 
a favorite with the Venetian nobles. 

Brabantio, a magnifico of Venice, often invited Othello 
to be his guest, and encouraged the Moor to relate the 
stories of his exploits. Brabantio's daughter, Desde- 
mona, was an interested listener to these stories, it never 
occurring to her father to fear that his daughter, a proud 
Venetian lady, could stoop to feel any special interest 
in the dark-skinned narrator. Desdemona, however, 
who since her mother's death had been in charge of the 
household, was so enamored of the grave Othello that 
she would not wiUingly miss any of his words. As 
Othello said afterwards, — 

Still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 

371 



She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 

Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 

Took once a phant hour, and found good means 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 

But not intentively.^ I did consent. 

And often did beguile her of her tears. 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke 

That my youth suffered. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 

She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful ; 

She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished 

That heaven had made her such a man. 

Upon this hint I spake : — 
She loved me for the dangers I had passed. 
And I loved her that she did pity them. 

All this was done without the knowledge of Braban- 
tio. Desdemona, on her part, knew very well that her 
father would not consent to her marrying the Moor. 
So she resolved to marry without consulting him. 

When Brabantio discovered that his trusted daughter 
had secretly left home and that she was already wedded 
to Othello, he was beside himself with rage. He be- 
lieved that the Moor must have won Desdemona's love 
by the use of some magical arts, such as spells or 
charmed drugs, called love-potions, and he went to the 
duke to entreat him to use the law to separate the newly 
wedded couple. 

It chanced, however, that on that very day, news of 

1 attentively. 
372 



serious import had reached the government, namely, 
that a large fleet of Turkish war vessels had been seen 
making straight for Cyprus, an island belonging to 
Venice. The duke, in alarm, had called a night session 
of the magnificoes, and had summoned Othello to ap- 
pear before them. For all minds turned to the Moor 
as the only leader able to cope successfully with the 
Turks. 

Just as Brabantio reached the council chamber, the 
duke was saying to Othello : — 

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you 
Against the general enemy Ottoman, — 

whereupon Brabantio interposed : — 

Good your grace, pardon me ; 
Neither my place nor aught 1 heard of business 
Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care 
Take hold on me, for my particular grief 
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature 
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows. 

Duke. Why, what's the matter? 

Brabantio. My daughter ! O, my daughter ! 

Duke. Dead? 

Brabantio. Ay, to me ; 
She is abused, stolen from me, and corrupted 
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks. 

Duke. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding 
Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself 
And you of her, the bloody book of law 
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter 
After your own sense. 

Brabantio. Humbly I thank your grace. 

?>7Z 



Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems, 
Your special mandate for the state affairs 
Had hither brought. 

The duke and senators were so shocked by this un- 
expected answer that they could only beg Othello to 
explain how far it was true. In reply, he said : — 

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 

My very noble and approved good masters. 

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 

It is most true ; true, I have married her : 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, 

And httle blessed with the soft phrase of peace ; 

For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 

Their dearest^ action in the tented field ; 

And little of this great world can I speak. 

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, 

And therefore little shall I grace my cause 

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, 

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 

What conjuration, and what mighty magic, — 

For such proceeding I am charged withal, — 

I won his daughter. 

Brabantio. a maiden never bold ; 

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion 
Blushed at herself; and she, in spite of nature, 
Of years, of country, credit, everything, 
To fall in love with what she feared to look on ! 

— I therefore vouch again 

1 greatest. 
374 



That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood, 
Or with some dram conjured to this effect, 
He wrought upon her. 

Senator. But, Othello, speak : 

Did you by indirect and forced courses 
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? 
Or came it by request, and such fair question 
As soul to soul affordeth ? 

Othello. I do beseech you send for the lady, 

And let her speak of me before her father. 
If you do find me foul in her report. 
The trust, the office I do hold of you. 
Not only take away, but let your sentence 
Even fall upon my life. 

Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 

While the messenger went to conduct Desdemona 
to the ducal presence, Othello, at the request of the 
duke, told what we already know, how he had been 
often invited to Brabantio's house, and how he had told 
the story of his numerous adventures to gratify the 
curiosity of Brabantio. He told also how deeply in- 
terested Desdemona had been until, as we have heard, 
she led him on to declare his love for her. He con- 
cluded : — 

This only is the witchcraft I have used. — 
Here comes the lady ; let her witness it. 
* Brabantio. I pray you, hear her speak ; 

If she confess that she was half the wooer, 
Destruction on ray head, if my bad blame 
Light on the man ! Come hither, gentle mistress ; 
Do you perceive in all this noble company 
Where most you owe obedience? 

375 



Desdemona. My noble father, 

I do perceive here a divided duty : 
To you I am bound for Kfe and education ; 
I am hitherto your daughter ; but here's my husband, 
And so much duty as my mother showed 
To you, preferring you before her father, 
So much I challenge that I may profess 
Due to the JNIoor, my lord. 

Brabantio, although filled with indignation toward 
the daughter who had deceived him, v/as wise enough 
to realize that, since Desdemona acknowledged that she 
loved and respected the Moor, it would be foolish — 

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone, 

so he withdrew his opposition to the marriage. Yet 
he was so grieved at Desdemona's unfilial conduct that 
he said : — 

I am glad at soul I have no other child. 

Then he begged the duke to attend to the pressing 
state business that had caused him to call this night 
session of the senate. Thereupon the duke explained 
the situation and said that, although there was a good 
officer at Cyprus, yet he would rather trust Othello to 
command when the place was threatened by so formida- 
ble an enemy. 

When Desdemona found that her lord must go to 
Cyprus, she begged to be allowed to accompany him : — 

Desdemona. Most gracious duke, 
To my unfolding lend your prosperous ^ ear ; 
1 favoring. 



And let me find a charter in your voice, 
To assist my simpleness. 

Duke. What would you, Desdemona? 

Desdemona. That I did love the Moor to live with him. 
My downright violence and storm of fortunes 
May trumpet to the world : my heart's subdued 
Even to the very quality of my lord ; 
I saw Othello's visage in his mind, 
And to his honors and his valiant parts 
Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. 
So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, 
A moth of peace, and he go to the war, 
I a heavy interim shall support 
By his dear absence. Let me go with him. 

Othello added his entreaties to his wife's request, 
promising not to let her presence interfere with his 
faithful discharge of duty. The duke readily consented, 
but told Othello that he must leave immediately, and 
suggested that he should give Desdemona into the 
charge of some officer who should follow the next day. 
For this service Othello chose his ensign, lago, a man 
in whom he had full confidence. 

Othello. So please your grace, my ancient ; ^ 
A man he is of honesty and trust : 
To his conveyance I assign my wife, 
With what else needful your good grace shall think 
To be sent after me. 

Duke. Let it be so. — 

Good night to every one. — And, noble signior, 
If virtue no delighted beauty lack. 
Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. 

1 ensign ; flag-bearer. 
377 



In saying farewell, Brabantio warned Othello : — 

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see ; 
She has deceived her father, and may thee. 

My life upon her faith ! 

returned the trusting Othello. Then, turning to his 
ensign, he added : — 

Honest lago, 
My Desdemona must I leave to thee ; 
I prithee, let thy wife attend on her 
And bring them after in the best advantage. 

From what we have heard we realize that what lago 
said of Othello was true : — 

The Moor is of a free and open nature, 

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so. 

This was proved in the sequel, to the sad cost of 
the unsuspecting general. For lago was far from being 
the honest man that Othello thought him. He had an 
evil, revengeful disposition, and, just now, he was very 
angry because Othello had not given him the position 
of lieutenant under him, but had promoted one Cassio 
to that office. Therefore he began to plot a double 
revenge, which should involve both Othello and Cassio 
in its snare. But he masked his wicked purpose in 
smiles and a pretence of ardent devotion to Othello and 
his bride. 

While on their way to Cyprus, the ships were overtaken 
by a frightful tempest, which separated them, and drove 
the one which carried Othello so far out of its course 

378 



that Desdemona, with lago, arrived first. The storm 
proved the truth of the old saying, however, that *' it is 
an ill wind that blows nobody good," for it wrecked a 
large part of the Turkish fleet, and effectually prevented 
the attack upon Cyprus. When Desdemona landed, 
Cassio, whose vessel first reached the port, welcomed 
her joyfully, saying to the gentlemen who belonged to 
the garrison : — 

O behold, 
The riches of the ship is come on shore ! 
Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. — 
Hail to thee, lady ! and the grace of heaven, 
Before, behind thee, and on every hand, 
Enwheel thee round ! 

Desdemona. I thank you, valiant Cassio. 

What tidings can you tell me of my lord ? 

Cassio. He's not yet arrived ; nor know I aught 
But that he's well and will be shortly here. 

Even while they were talking, a sail was descried 
making for the harbor, and the hope that it might be- 
long to the ship that carried her husband made Desde- 
mona happy, and ready to lavish her smiles upon the 
company. Her lively sallies of wit and Cassio's gallant 
replies angered the evil heart of lago, and he said to 
himself as he watched the innocent gayety of the unsus- 
pecting pair : — 

Ay, smile upon her, do ; ay, whisper ; with as little a web as 
this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. If such tricks as 
these strip you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you 
had not kissed your three fingers so oft. 

379 



Othello's fears for Desdemona's safety were lost in 
joy to find her awaiting his arrival. To her greeting, — 

My dear Othello ! 

he replied : — 

It gives me wonder great as my content 

To see you here before me. O my soul's joy ! 

If after every tempest come such calms, 

May the winds blow till they have wakened death ! 

And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas 

Olympus-high, and duck again as low 

As hell's from heaven ! If it were now to die, 

'Twere now to be most happy ; for, I fear. 

My soul hath her content so absolute 

That not another comfort like to this 

Succeeds in unknown fate. 

Desdemona. The heavens forbid 

But that our loves and comforts should increase. 
Even as our days do grow ! 

Othello. Amen to that, sweet powers ! 

I cannot speak enough of this content; 
It stops me here ; it is too much of joy. 

lago's hatred grew still more bitter at sight of this 
loving meeting, and with serpent-like venom he resolved 
to sting their happiness to death. He muttered to 
himself : — 

O, you are well tuned now ! 
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music, 
As honest as I am. 

Among the Venetians who had been suitors for the 
hand of Desdemona was one whose disappointment at 

380 



her marrying Othello was so great that he allowed him- 
self to be persuaded by lago to enter into the plot 
against Desdemona's happiness in her husband. This 
man, Roderigo by name, had followed them to Cyprus. 
He was no match for the cunning lago ; so he became 
merely a tool in the hands of the greater villain. 

As the first step in this mischief-making, lago falsely 
represented to Roderigo that Desdemona was beginning 
to weary of her husband, who was so much older than 
herself, and that she was now in love with the gallant 
young lieutenant, Cassio. lago asserted of Cassio : — 

He is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him 
that folly and green minds look after, and the woman hath found 
him already. 

Roderigo. I cannot believe that in her ; she's full of most 
blessed condition. 

Iago. Blessed fig's end ! if she had been blessed, she would 
never have loved the Moor. 

Iago went on to unfold his plan, whereby he proposed 
to embroil Roderigo with Cassio. The lieutenant was 
to have charge of the watch that night, and Iago desired 
Roderigo to find some occasion to anger Cassio who, he 
said, was easily irritated. lago's hope was that Cassio 
would strike Roderigo, and that his violence would stir 
up the soldiers against him. He thought that he could 
make capital out of their indignation so as to cause the 
removal of Cassio, and that Othello would then appoint 
him to the vacant place. That Iago was a cold, cal- 
culating villain appears plainly in these words, which he 
said to himself after Roderigo had left him : — 

^8 1 



That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it ; 

That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit.-^ 

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, 

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, 

And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona 

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too ; 

And nothing can or shall content my soul 

Till that I put the Moor into a jealousy so strong 

That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do, 

I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, 

Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb — 

Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me, 

For making him egregiously an ass. 

And practising upon his peace and quiet 

Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused ; 

Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. 

When lago incited Roderigo to insult Cassio and so 
provoke the lieutenant to anger, he knew that there 
would be a good opportunity for carrying out his plan, 
because Othello had had proclamation made to the 
garrison and the inhabitants of the island, that they 
should celebrate their escape from threatened invasion 
by the destruction of the Turkish fleet. The herald 
cried : — 

It is Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that, 
upon certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere perdition- 
of the Turkish fleet, every man put himself into triumph ; some 
to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and 
revels his addiction ^ leads him : for, besides these beneficial 
news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his 

1 natural and very probable. ^ entire destruction. 3 inclination. 

382 



pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there 
is full Hberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the 
bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and 
our noble general Othello ! 

That Othello both taught and practised self-control 
it evident from the directions that he gave Michael 
Cassio, whom he had appointed to take charge of the 
festivities. To Cassio he said : — 

Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night ; 
Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, 
Not to outsport discretion. 

Cassio. lago hath direction what to do, 
But, notwithstanding with my personal eye 
Will I look to't. 

Othello. lago is most honest. 

Michael, good night ; to-morrow with your earliest 
Let me have speech with you. 

To make things turn out as he desired, lago set him- 
self to getting the watchmen drunk. He began by pro- 
posing to Cassio that they should, with some Cyprus 
officers, drink to the health of " black Othello." Cassio, 
who knew his own weakness, replied — 

Not to-night, good lago. I have very poor and unhappy 
brains for drinking ; I could well wish courtesy would invent 
some other custom of entertainment. 

Iago. What, man ! 'tis a night of revels; the gallants de- 
sire it. 

Cassio. I'll do't ; but it dishkes me. 

While Cassio was engaged in greeting Montano, 
the former governor of Cyprus, and his followers, 

383 



lago was congratulating himself upon what he, fiend- 
like, was pleased to consider his good success, saying 
of Cassio : — 

If I can fasten but one cup upon him, 

With that which he hath drunk to-night already, 

He'll be as full of quarrel and offence 

As my young mistress' dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo, 

Whom love hath turned almost the wrong side out, 

To Desdemona hath to-night caroused 

Potations pottle-deep ;^ and he's to watch. 

Three lads of Cyprus, — noble sw^elling spirits, 

Have I to-night flustered with flowing cups. 

And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards, 

Am I to put our Cassio in some action 

That may offend the isle. 

In pursuance of his devilish purpose the honest (?) 
ancient called for wine and began to sing a carousal 

song : — 

And let me the canakin dink, clink! 
And let me the canakin clink! 

A soldier's a man ; 

A life's hit a spati ; 
Why, then let a soldier- drink ! 

The whole party now became hilarious and Cassio 
forgot all his discretion. Roderigo, at a word from 
lago, spoke so insultingly to Cassio as to cause the 
foolish lieutenant to strike him. His blow excited others 
to interfere, and in the general fight that ensued some 
wounds were given. Then lago, pretending that mutiny 
had arisen, caused the bells of the fort to be rung, in 

1 to the bottom of the tankard or cup. 
384 



order that he might bring Othello upon the scene, and 
cause the lieutenant to be publicly disgraced. When 
Othello appeared, and demanded in his wrath how the 
mad riot had begun, lago was ready with his lying 
account. Said Othello : — 

What ! in a town of war, 
Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear, 
To manage private and domestic quarrel. 
In night, and on the court and guard of safety ! 
'Tis monstrous. — lago, who began 't? 

Iago. I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth 
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio ; 
Yet I persuade myself, to speak the truth 
Shall nothing wrong him. — Thus it is, general. 
Montano and myself being in speech. 
There comes a fellow crying out for help. 
And Cassio following him with determined sword, 
To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman 
Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause ; 
Myself the crying fellow did pursue. 
Lest by his clamor — as it so fell out — 
The town might fall in fright ; he, swift of foot, 
Outran my purpose, and I returned the rather 
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, 
And Cassio high in oath, which till to-night 
I ne'er might say before. When I came back — 
For this was brief — I found them close together, 
At blow and thrust, even as again they were 
When you yourself did part them. 
More of this matter cannot I report : 
But men are men ; the best sometimes forget. 
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him. 
Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received 

2C 385 



FroQi him that fled some strange indignity, 
Which patience could not pass. 

Othello. I know, lago, 

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, 
Making it light to Cassio. — Cassio, I love thee ; 
But never more be officer of mine, 
lago, look with care about the town. 
And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted. 

No sooner had Othello withdrawn with the rest of 
the lookers-on than the hypocritical lago pretended to 
sympathize with Cassio, who had now come to a realiz- 
ing sense of his dishonorable conduct. lago queried : — 

What, are you hurt, lieutenant? 

Cassio. Ay, past all surgery. I have lost my reputation ! I 
have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is 
bestial. My reputation, lago, my reputation ! 

Iago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received 
some bodily wound ; there is more sense in that than in repu- 
tation. Reputation is oft got without merit, and lost without 
deserving : you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute 
yourself such a loser. What, man ! there are ways to recover 
the general again. Sue to him again, and he's yours. 

Cassio. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so 
good a commander with so shght, so drunken, and so indis- 
creet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? 
swagger? swear? — O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast 
no name to be known by, let us call thee devil ! 

Iago. What was he that you followed with your sword? 
what had he done to you? 

Cassio. I know not. I remember a mass of things, but 
nothing distinctly ; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. — O God, 
that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away 

386 



their brains ! that we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and 
applause, transform ourselves into beasts ! 

This repentance and lamentation was not what lago 
desired. He was, even then, scheming to lead Cassio 
still further into disgrace, and at the same time, to 
entangle Desdemona in Cassio's fall. So he suggested 
that Cassio should apply to Desdemona to plead for 
him with her lord. This the wily villain did, intending 
to hint to Othello that Desdemona's interceding for the 
disgraced lieutenant was for her own selfish purpose — 
that she was herself secretly in love with Cassio. 

Cassio fell into the snare easily, and parted from lago 
with the words : — 

Betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desde- 
mona to undertake for me. 

lago, left alone, exulted fiendishly over the success 
of his evil plot, saying : — 

And what's he then that says I play the villain? 
When this advice is free I give and honest, 
Probal ^ to thinking, and indeed the course 
To win the Moor again ? For 'tis most easy 
The inclining Desdemona to subdue 
In any honest suit ; she's framed as fruitful ^ 
As the free elements. How am I then a villain 
To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, 
Directly to his good? Divinity of hell ! 
When devils will the blackest sins put on, 
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, 
As I do now : for whiles this honest fool 

1 probable, reasonable. * 2 generous. 

387 



Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes, 
And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 
I'll pour this pestilence into his ear, — 
That she repeals ^ him for her body's lust ; 
And by how much she strives to do him good, 
She shall undo her credit with the Moor. 
So will I turn her virtue into pitch, 
And out of her own goodness make the net 
That shall enmesh them all. 

The following day, when Desdemona gave audience 

to Cassio, and promised him that she would plead so 

earnestly for his restoration to the place which he had 

lost as to give her husband no rest, lago contrived to 

come near with Othello just as Cassio was taking leave 

of Desdemona. Whereupon he started and uttered an 

exclamation : — 

Ha ! I hke not that ! 

just loud enough to catch the ear of Othello. It had 
exactly the effect that the sneaking fellow intended, to 
arrest the attention of Othello, and excite a sudden 
suspicion in his mind. So when Othello inquired if 
that was Cassio who had that moment left his wife, 
lago replied : — 

Cassio, my lord ! No, sure, I cannot think it. 
That he would steal away so guilty-like. 
Seeing you coming, — 

and the mischief was done. The poison of distrust was 
lodged in the mind of the large-hearted, confiding Moor. 
And when the false ensign went on to insinuate that 

1 recalls. 
338 



it was not to be wondered at that Desdemona, young, 
ardent, and attractive, should tire of her dark-skinned 
husband, after the romantic light in which she had 
viewed her elderly lover's heroic achievements had 
paled in the daylight of marriage, Othello felt that this 
was but natural. So, without taking any steps to find 
out the truth for himself, he allowed himself to believe 
all the false stories that lago now poured into his ear. 

In listening to the artful hints by which lago under- 
mined Othello's confidence in his true wife, one feels 
the same indignant sympathy as when a noble steed is 
rendered frantic by the stings of some venomous insect. 
With a pretence of unwillingness to suspect any evil of 
Cassio and Desdemona, lago yet insinuated the worst. 
Although protesting, — 

I think Cassio's an honest man, — 

he continued : — 

I do beseech you — 
It were not for your quiet nor your good, 
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, 
To let you know my thoughts. 

Othello. What dost thou mean? 

Iago. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord. 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 
Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; 
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands ; 
But he that filches from me my good name 
Robs me of that which not enriches him 
And makes me poor indeed. 

Thus while uttering great truths, the contemptible 
villain gave them a false application, and still further 

389 



excited the passion of Othello. Then, adding insult to 
injury, he mockingly bade his lord : — 

Beware of jealousy; 
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock 
The meat it feeds on : — 
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend 
From jealousy ! 

Othello. Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy, 
To follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt 
Is once to be resolved. 'Tis not to make me jealous 
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, 
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well ; 
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous : 
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw 
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt ; 
For she had eyes, and chose me. No, lago ! 
I'll see before I doubt ; when I doubt, prove : 
And on the proof there is no more but this, — 
Away at once with love or jealousy ! 

I AGO. I speak not yet of proof. 

Look to your wife ; observe her well with Cassio ; 
I would not have your free and noble nature 
Out of self-bounty be abused ; look to't. 
She did deceive her father, marrying you ; 
And when she seemed to shake and fear your looks, 
She loved them most. 

She that, so young, could give out such a seeming, 
To seeH her father's eyes up close as oak — 
He thought 'twas witchcraft — But I am much to blame ; 
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon 
For too much loving you. 

1 blind ; a term in falconry. 



And the pity of it was that the deluded Moor beheved 
the false professions of his ancient, and in consequence 
fatally wronged himself and two innocent souls. 

Othello having told lago that he would not believe 
that Desdemona was unfaithful without proof, lago felt 
that it was necessary for him to offer something that 
might seem like tangible evidence of the lady's guilt. 
He happened to know that Othello's first gift to Desde- 
mona was an heirloom in his family, — a curiously em- 
broidered handkerchief which was reputed to have a 
magic charm about it. So he commanded his wife, 
Emilia, who was Desdemona's attendant, to steal that 
handkerchief for him. This Emilia contrived to do 
even though she knew that, because it was her hus- 
band's gift, Desdemona — 

— so loves the token, 
That she reserves it evermore about her 
To kiss and talk to. 

lago's plan was to drop this handkerchief in Cassio's 
room, and then to have the fact of its being there 
brought to the ears of Othello. He well knew that 
this alone would seem to the Moor sufficient proof, 
for Othello was now so wrought upon that he was not 
likely to search out the matter, and besides : — 

Trifles light as air 
Are to the jealous confirmations strong 
As proofs of holy writ. 

He soon found an opportunity to pour this fresh He 
into Othello's ear, but he had not calculated upon the 

391 



awfulness of the wronged Moor's wrath. It made him 
fear for his own safety, and caused him to play his vii- 
lanous part with even more artful energy than before. 
So, when Othello in his pain and rage moaned over 
Desdemona's supposed falseness, and demanded proof 
of lago's evil accusations, vdth the cunning of a serpent, 
lago stung him into madness. In an agony of doubt 
and fear, Othello exclaimed : — 

By the world, 
I think my wife be honest, and think she is not ; 
I think that thou art just, and think thou art not. 
I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh 
As Dian's ^'isage, is now begrimed and black 
As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives. 
Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, 
I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied ! 

Iago. I see, sir, you are eaten up w4th passion ; 
I do repent me that I put it to you. 
You would be satisfied? 

Othello. Would I nay, I will. 

Give me a liWng reason she's disloyal. 

L\GO. I do not hke the office ; 
But sith ^ I am entered in this cause so far. 
Pricked to't by foolish honesty and love, 
I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately ; 
And, being troubled with a raging tooth, 
I could not sleep. 

There are a kind of men so loose of soul, 
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs ; 
One of this kind is Cassio. 
In sleep I heard him say *•' Sweet Desdemona, 

1 since. 



Let us be wary, let us hide our loves." 

Othello. O monstrous ! monstrous ! I'll tear her 
all to pieces. 

Iago. Nay, but be wise : yet we see nothing done ; 
She may be honest yet. Tell me but this, 
Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief 
Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand? 

Othello. I gave her such a one ; 'twas my first gift. 

Iago. I know not that ; but such a handkerchief — 
I am sure it was your wife's — did I to-day 
See Cassio wipe his beard with. 
If it be that, or any that was hers, 
It speaks against her with the other proofs. 

Othello. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives ! 
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. 
Now I do see 'tis true. Look here, Iago ; 
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 
'Tis gone. 

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell ! 
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne 
To tyrannous hate ! 

In his towering rage, Othello told Iago that the great- 
est service he could pay him would be — 

Within these three days let me hear thee say 
That Cassio's not alive. 

For this crime, which Iago vowed to accomplish, Othello, 
then and there, named him his lieutenant. 

Poor Desdemona, innocent at heart, took every op- 
portunity of pleading with her lord in behalf of Cassio, 
and she could not understand the meaning of the harsh 
words and still harsher frowns which her persistent 

393 



advocacy of the cause of the discharged lieutenant 
called out. But Othello's dark looks so terrified her 
that, when he asked for the lost handkerchief, she dared 
not confess the truth. For when the Moor, pretending 
to desire to use it, asked her to lend him the handker- 
chief which he had given her, she faltered : — 

I have it not about me. 

Othello. That is a fault. 

That handkerchief 
Did an Egyptian to my mother give ; 
She was a charmer, and could almost read 
The thoughts of people : she told her, while she kept it, 
'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father 
Entirely to her love, but if she lost it 
Or made a gift of it, my father's eye 
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt 
After new fancies. She dying gave it me ; 
And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, 
To give it her. I did so : and take heed on't; 
Make it a darling in your precious eye : 
To lose't or give't away were such perdition 
As nothing else could match. 

Desdemona. Is't possible ? 

Othello. 'Tis true ; there's magic in the web of it. 
A sibyl that had numbered in the world 
The sun to course two hundred compasses, 
In her prophetic fury sewed the work ; 
The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk ; 
And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful 
Conserved of maiden's hearts. — 
Therefore look to't well. 

Desdemona. Then would to God that I had never 
seen't ! 

394 



Othello. Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out o' the 
way? 

Desdemona. It is not lost ; but what an if it were ? 

Othello. Fetch't, let me see't. 

Desdemona. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. 
This is a trick to put me from my suit ; 
Pray you, let Cassio be received again. 

Through fear of Othello, who seemed so wrathful, yet 
so serious in his anger, Desdemona was betrayed into 
falsehood ; and her ill-timed pleading for Cassio con- 
firmed the evil suspicion sown by lago in the mind of 
her husband. That plotting villain missed no oppor- 
tunity of fomenting Othello's jealousy. Lie after lie 
was poured into the ear of the Moor, who was so honor- 
able himself that he did not once suspect the honesty 
of the man who seemed all sympathy for him. The 
mischief reached its climax when lago contrived to let 
Othello hear a conversation between himself and Cassio, 
in which Cassio spoke lightly of a woman of low char- 
acter, but which was so distorted by lago as to cause 
the listening Othello to understand that the woman in 
question was Desdemona. 

Grief and rage now overmastered the Moor whose 
love had been so cruelly wronged. Believing the worst 
of Desdemona, he violently reproached her, and even 
went so far as to strike her in the presence of others. 
And when his pure and loyal wife knelt and implored 

him : — 

Upon my knees, what doth your speech import? 
I understand a fury in your words, 
But not the words : — 
395 



he spurned her with the retort : — 

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. 

O thou weed, 
Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet 
That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been 

born 1 

Such agony of suffering was in Othello's voice that 
Desdemona felt that his unkind treatment must be due 
to some awful misunderstanding, and her own love was 
so true that her heart forgave his harshness. Her only 
desire was to win back the love of her husband, and 
knowing how Othello trusted I ago, she appealed to him 
to intercede for her. If that false knave's heart had 
been less than fiendish, it would have melted at her 
cry : — 

O good lago, 
What shall I do to win my lord again? 
Good friend, go to him ; for, by this light of heaven, 
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel : 
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, 
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, 
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
Delighted them in any other form. 
Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
And ever will — though he do shake me off 
To beggarly divorcement — love him dearly, 
Comfort forswear me 1 Unkindness may do much ; 
And his unkindness may defeat my life, 
But never taint my love. 

Iago. I pray you, be content ; 'tis but his humor : 
The business of the state does him offence, 
And he does chide with you. 

396 



The sight of the misery he had caused, instead of 
exciting lago to pity, spurred him on to complete the 
ruin of two loving souls. I suppose that he had gone 
so far in crime that he feared for his own life in the 
event of discovery of his villany. However that might 
be, he now had recourse to the lovesick Roderigo once 
more. Messages had just been brought from the court 
of Venice recalling Othello and appointing Cassio gov- 
ernor of Cyprus. lago made Roderigo believe that it 
would be to his advantage to put Cassio out of the way, 
and the foolish fellow actually allowed himself to be 
persuaded into making an attack upon Cassio after 
nightfall. lago stationed Roderigo at a point where 
he knew that Cassio was about to pass, and then, 
like the coward he was, slunk away, lest his part in 
the matter should be detected. That he realized on 
what dangerous ground he stood appears from these 
his words, which he spoke in the depths of his own 
heart : — 

Now, whether he kill Cassio, 
Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, 
Every way makes my game. Live Roderigo, 
He calls me to a restitution large 
Of gold and jewels that I bobbed ^ from him, 
As gifts to Desdemona ; 
It must not be. If Cassio do remain, 
He hath a daily beauty in his life 
That makes me ugly ; and, besides, the Moor 
May unfold me to him ; there stand I in much peril 
No, he must die. 

1 fooled him out of. 
397 



Othello meanwhile, with death in his heart, had com- 
manded Desdemona to retire early and to dismiss her 
attendant. Desdemona, with true wifely loyalty, obeyed, 
and when Emilia said that she wished her sweet mis- 
tress had never seen the Moor, Desdemona replied : — 

So would not I ; my love doth so approve him, 

That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns, 

Have grace and favor in them. 

My mother had a maid called Barbara ; 

She was in love, and he she loved proved mad 

And did forsake her. She had a song of " willow ; " 

An old thing 'twas, but it expressed her fortune, 

And she died singing it. That song to-night 

Will not go from my mind ; I have much to do 

But to go hang my head all at one side, 

And sing it Uke poor Barbara. 

Her heart was so oppressed with sadness that she 
was impelled to sing the song of forsaken love : — 

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree. 

Sing all a green willow ; 
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her kiiee, 

Sing willow, willoiv, willow : 
The fresh sti-eams ran by her, and murmured her moans ; 

Sing willow, willow, willow ; 
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones ; 

Si7ig willow, willow, willow ; 
Sing all a green willoiv must be my garla?id. 
Let nobody blame hi7n ; his scorn I approve, — 

Sing willow, willow, willow. 

As the last wail of the mournful song died away, she 
bade Emilia : — 

398 



So, get thee gone ; good night. Mine eyes do itch ; 
Doth that bode weeping? I have heard it said so. 

As Othello looked upon the sleeping Desdemona, her 
chaste beauty almost overcame his purpose. In those 
days, a husband who had been wronged felt it to be his 
sacred duty to avenge his stained honor by inflicting 
death upon his sinning wife. So intense was Othello's 
gaze that it awakened the sleeper. Alarmed by his 
wild looks and his stern words, — for Othello bade her 
pray heaven for forgiveness, — Desdemona entreated to 
know how she had offended him to whom in her heart 
she had ever been faithful. Then Othello charged her 
with having loved Cassio wrongfully, and with having 
given him the handkerchief, his bridal gift. When 
Desdemona stoutly denied the charge, and begged him 
to send for Cassio that he might confirm her truth, 
Othello warned her : — 

Sweet soul, take heed, 
Take heed of perjury ; thou art on thy deathbed. 
Desdemona. Then Lord have mercy on me ! 
Othello. I say, amen. 

Desdemona. And have you mercy too ! I never did 
Offend you in my life ; never loved Cassio 
But with such general warranty of heaven 
As I might love ; I never gave him token. 

Othello. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in's hand. 
O perjured woman ! thou dost stone my heart, 
And mak'st me call what I intend to do 
A murther, which I thought a sacrifice. 

Othello was sure that Desdemona was untrue, and 
his love was so great that he could not bear the thought 

399 



of her going to God with a lie upon her hps ; so he 
silenced her pleading with a stifling pressure of the 
bed-clothes. But even while her breath was still warm, 
he heard cries without and his name called. It was 
Emilia crying : — 

O my good lord, yonder's foul murther done ! 
Cassio, my lord, hath killed a young Venetian 
Called Roderigo. 

Othello. Roderigo killed ! 

And Cassio killed ! 

Emilia. No, Cassio is not killed. 

It seems that lago's scheme had failed as far as 
Cassio was concerned, and when he found that Cassio 
had gotten the better of his assailant, lago stabbed 
Roderigo himself, to prevent his telling the truth about 
the matter. But his guilty soul could not longer escape 
the vengeance of just Heaven. When Emilia learned 
that her mistress was dead, and heard from Othello why 
he had taken that sweet life, she was horror-stricken at 
the discovery of her husband's villany. Then she con- 
fessed how she had stolen the handkerchief by com- 
mand of lago, and she denounced his false practices. 
At that moment, officers appeared with the wounded 
Cassio borne by attendants, and lago bound as a 
prisoner. 

In searching the pockets of the slain Roderigo, they 
had found letters which revealed lago's plots against 
the life of Cassio. Othello, who now realized that he 
had been fatally betrayed into crime by the man whom 
he had trusted as honor and honesty itself, felt that the 

400 



only way by which he could make atonement for his 
blindness and murder was by taking his own life. 

His dying wish was that those who heard him 
would do him justice with the Venetian state. He 
urged them : — 

I pray you in your letters, 
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 
Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, 
Nor set down aught in malice ; then must you speak 
Of one that loved not wisely but too well ; 
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought. 
Perplexed in the extreme ; of one whose hand, 
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away 
Richer than all his tribe ; of one whose subdued eyes, 
Albeit unused to the melting mood, 
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this ; 
For naught I did in hate, but all in honor. 

To Cassio, wh-o now became governor of Cyprus, was 
intrusted the duty of punishing fitly the base villain 
whose fiendish hatred had wrought death to the hap- 
piness of two noble lives. 



2D 401 



CYMBELINE 



CYMBELINE 

Cymbeline, king of Britain, was a harsh, despotic 
ruler, who would punish his subjects on mere suspicion, 
if he chanced to take a dislike to them. On one occa- 
sion he suspected a valiant officer, named Belarius, of 
treason, and sent him into banishment, without giving 
him any opportunity of proving his innocence of the 
crime. 

Belarius was so enraged at this injustice that he 
persuaded the nurse who had the care of the king's 
two boys, to steal her little charges, and fly with him. 
Cymbeline was unable to get any trace of the fugitives, 
and he mourned his sons as dead. The queen-mother 
had died before the loss of the princes. One child 
alone, a dear little daughter, named Imogen, remained 
to cheer her father's heart. 

Twenty years passed. Imogen had grown to be a 
beautiful young woman, whom everybody loved, for she 
was as good as she was beautiful. She had given her 
heart to Posthumus, a fine young man, who had been 
her playfellow in childhood, he having been brought up 
at the king's court. His father had lost his life fighting 
in a war with the Romans, and his mother dying also at 
the birth of her child, CymbeHne had taken the orphan 

405 



babe, and educated him. Posthumus proved an apt 
learner, and his nobleness of disposition made him a 
general favorite. 

Unfortunately for the happiness of Posthumus and 
Imogen, however, Cymbeline permitted himself to be 
ruled entirely by his second wife, a woman of a low 
nature. This queen had set her heart on marrying her 
son, Cloten, to Imogen, in order that he might be raised 
to the throne ; for since the princes had not been found, 
Imogen was Cymbeline's heir. 

The queen won Cymbeline's consent to her plan. 
Great was her dismay, then, when she discovered that 
Imogen, knowing that her father would refuse consent 
to her union with Posthumus, and feeling that she 
would rather die than marry Cloten, who was a mean- 
spirited, stupid creature, had secretly espoused her true 
lover. 

Cymbeline's anger, when the queen reported to him 
how their plans had been thwarted, caused him to 
banish Posthumus, and to give Imogen as a prisoner 
into the hands of her stepmother. The wily queen 
pretended to pity the husband who was commanded to 
leave his bride forever, so she permitted him to have a 
parting interview with Imogen. She told Posthumus : — 

For you, Posthumus, 
So soon as I can win the offended king, 
I will be known your advocate : marry, yet 
The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good 
You leaned unto his sentence with what patience 
Your wisdom may inform you. 

406 



PosTHUMUS. Please your highness, 

I will from hence to-day. 

Queen. You know the peril. 

I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying 
The pangs of barred affections, though the king 
Hath charged you should not speak together. 

Imogen knew that this was a false pretence, and 
that the queen would use this meeting to excite her 
father to still worse anger. As the queen moved away, 
Imogen exclaimed : — 

Dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant 

Can tickle where she wounds ! My dearest husband, 

I something fear my father's wrath ; but nothing. 

Always reserved my holy duty, what 

His rage can do on me : you must be gone j 

And I shall here abide the hourly shot 

Of angry eyes, not comforted to live, 

But that there is this jewel in the world 

That I may see again. 

PosTHUiMUS. My queen ! my mistress ! 

O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause 
To be suspected of more tenderness 
Than doth become a man. I will remain 
The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth : 
My residence in Rome at one Philario's, 
Who to my father was a friend, to me 
Known but by letter : thither write, my queen, 
And with my eyes I'll drink the words you send. 
Though ink be made of gall. 

At this moment, the false queen returned, and warned 
them to hasten their leave-taking, lest the king should 

407 



interrupt them. This she said, knowing that he was, 
even then, coming that way, she having suggested to 
him that it might be well to do so. Posthumus lingered 
at the request of Imogen, who pleaded : — 

Stay a little : 
Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love, 
This diamond was my mother's : take it, heart ; 
But keep it till you woo another wife. 
When Imogen is dead. 

Posthumus. How, how ! another? 

You gentle gods, give me but this I have. 
And sear up my embracements from a next 
With bonds of death ! 

Then putting on the ring, he added : — 

Remain, remain thou here, 
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest. 
As I my poor self did exchange for you. 
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles, 
I still win of you. 

For his bond of love, he put on her arm a bracelet, 

saying : — 

For my sake, wear this ; 
It is a manacle of love ; I'll place it 
Upon this fairest prisoner. 

Imogen. O the gods ! 

When shall we see again? 

For reply, Posthumus exclaimed : — 

Alack, the king ! — 

and there was the enraged CymbeHne, who thundered : — 

408 



Thou basest thing, avoid ! hence, from my sight ! 
If after this command thou fraught the court 
With tliy unvvorthiness, thou diest : away ! 
Thou'rt poison to my blood. 

PosTHUMUS. The gods protect you ! 

And bless the good remainders of the court ! 
I am gone. 

Imogen. There cannot be a pinch in death 
More sharp than this is. 

Cymbeline. O disloyal thing, 

That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st 
A year's age on me. 

Imogen. I beseech you, sir, 

Harm not yourself with your vexation : 
I am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
Subdues all pangs, all fears. 

Cymbeline. Past grace? obedience? 

Imogen. Past hope, and in despair : that way, past 
grace. 

Cymbeline. That mightst have had the sole son of 
my queen ! 

Imogen. O blest, that I might not ! I chose an eagle, 
And did avoid a puttock.^ 

Cymbeline. Thou took'st a beggar ; wouldst have 
made my throne 
A seat for baseness. 

Imogen. No ; I rather added 

A lustre to it. 

Cymbeline. O thou vile one ! 

Imogen. Sir, 

It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus : 
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
A man worth any woman. 

1 a bird of prey. 
409 



Imogen's defence of herself angered the unreasonable 
king still further, so that when the queen appeared, he 
ordered : — 

Away with her, and pen her up. 

QcEEX. Beseech your patience. Peace, 
Dear lady daughter, peace ! Sweet sovereign. 
Leave us to ourselves : and make yourself some comfort 
Out of yonr best advice. 

C\:mbeline- Xay, let her languish 

A drop of blood a day ; and, being aged. 
Die of this folly ! 

Now that Posthumus was gone, the queen and Cloten 
set themselves to wean Imogen's affections from her 
absent lord, and to induce her to look upon Cloten with 
favor. Instead, thev succeeded in causins: her to loathe 
the base fellow, and to chng with her whole heart to 
her exiled husband. The pettv' persecution to which 
she was subjected excited the pit}' and indignation of 
the entire court. One of the lords expressed the gen- 
eral feeling thus : — 

Alas, poor princess. 
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endurest. 
Betwixt a father by thy 5te{>-dame governed, 
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer 
More hatefiil than the foul expulsion is 
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act 
Of the divorce he'd make I The heavens hold firm 
The walls of thy dear honor, keep unshaked 
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mav'st stand. 
To enjoy thy banished lord and this great land. 

Poor Imogen ! though suffering keenly, no assaults 

410 



upon her constancy could prevail to weaken her devo- 
tion to the absent Posthumus. 

He, meanwhile, had arrived in Rome. At the house 
of his father's friend, Philario, he met a number of gay 
young fellows, who, as the time was, were given to 
making all sorts of wagers, and to provoking causeless 
quarrels. One of these idle youths, having heard Post- 
humus's story, and his high praises of the beauty and 
nobleness of Im^ogen, conceived the base notion of 
seeking to destroy the happiness of both by proWng 
Imogen false to her husband. This man, lachimo, 
had been so unfortunate as not to have known any true 
woman, and he beheved that all women were weak and 
yielding. So he dared Posthumus, who firmly declared 
his faith in Imogen's honor, to wager the diamond ring 
that Imogen had given him, against ten thousand 
ducats, that he could win Imogen from her constancy. 

Posthumus fooHshly consented to the wager, say- 



I shall but lend my diamoDd till your return : let there be 
covenants drawn between 's : my mistress exceeds in goodness 
the hugeness of your unworthy thinking : I dare you to this 
match : here's my ring. 

lACmMO. If I bring you no sufficient testimony, ray ten 
thousand ducats are yours : so is your diamond too : if I come 
oflf, and leave her in such honor as you have trust in, she your 
jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours. 

PosTm3ius. I embrace these conditions : let us have arti- 
cles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer : if you give 
me directly to understand you have prevailed, I am no further 
your enemy : if she remain unseduced, for your ill opinion and 

411 



the assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me 
with your sword. 

lACfflMO. Your hand ; a covenant : we will have these things 
set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain : 1 will 

fetch mv 2;old and have our two wafers recorded. 



O' 



Imogen, ignorant of the evil designs against her honor, 
mourned her sad fate in being thus forcibly separated 
from her beloved Posthumus, and counted the days until 
she might hope to hear from him. So when lachimo 
appeared, bringing a letter from her banished lord, she 
welcomed him kindly but with simple dignity, saying : — 

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I 
Have words to bid you, and shall find it so 
In all that I can do. 

lAcmMO. Thanks, fairest lady. 

Imogen's beaut}' and her queenly bearing so far ex- 
ceeded lachimo's expectations that he despaired of 
accomplishing his evil purpose, but he would not forego 
the attempt. So he began by telling false tales about 
Posthumus, insinuating that he was engaging in all sorts 
of merry-makings, forgetful of her lonely waiting at 
home. In reply to Imogen's anxious inquiries concern- 
ing the health of her lord, lachimo said : — 

None a stranger there 
So merr}'' and so gamesome : he is called 
The Briton reveller. 

Imogen. "\Mien he was here, 

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times 
Not knowing why. 

lACfflMO. I never saw him sad. 

412 



There is a Frenchman his companion, one 

An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves 

A GalHan girl at home : he furnaces 

The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton — 

Your lord, I mean — laughs from's free lungs, cries " O, 

Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows 

By history, report, or his own proof, 

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose 

But must be, will his free hours languish for 

Assured bondage? " 

Imogen. Will my lord say so? 

Iachimo. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with 
laughter : 
It is a recreation to be by 

And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know, 
Some men are much to blame. 

Imogen. Not he, I hope. 

My lord, I fear, has forgot Britain. 

Iachimo. And himself. Not I, 
Inclined to this inteUigence, pronounce 
The beggary of his change ; but 'tis your graces 
That from my mutest conscience to my tongue 
Charms this report out. 

Imogen. Let me hear no more. 

The sneaking villain then sought to persuade Imogen 
that she could revenge herself upon her husband, v^ho, 
he said, had forgotten his vows of constancy, by proving 
false in her turn. When he offered to kiss her, she burst 
out in indignant scorn : — 

• Away ! I do condemn mine ears that have 

So long attended thee. If thou wert honorable, 
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 

413 



For such an end thou seek'st, — as base as strange. 

Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far 

From thy report as thou from honor, and 

Solicit'st here a lady that disdains 

Thee and the devil alike. 

The king my father shall be made acquainted 

Of thy assault : if he shall think it fit, 

A saucy stranger in his court to expound 

His beastly mind to us, he hath a court 

He little cares for and a daughter who 

He not respects at all. 

lachimo was now as profuse in his apologies as he had 
been bold in his base attack upon Imogen's honor. He 
praised Posthumus extravagantly, and told his faithful 
wife : — 

He sits 'mongst men hke a descended god : 
He hath a kind of honor sets him off, 
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry. 
Most mighty princess, that I have adventured 
To try your taking of a false report ; which hath 
Honored with confirmation your great judgment 
In the election of a sir so rare. 
Which you know cannot err : the love I bear him 
Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you 
UnHke all others, chaffless.^ Pi'ay, your pardon. 

Although lachimo had been baffled by Imogen's 
purity, he was too base to be touched by her heavenly 
constancy. So he plotted still further against her inno- 
cence. He was resolved not to return to Rome without 
some apparent evidence that she was false to her hus- 

1 without baseness, true. 
414 



band. His plan now was to have himself conveyed to 
Imogen's room without her knowledge. To accomplish 
this he told her that : — 

Some dozen Romans of us and your lord — 

The best feather of our wing — have mingled sums 

To buy a present for the emperor ; 

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done 

In France : 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels 

Of rich and exquisite form ; their values great ; 

And I am something curious/ being strange, 

To have them in safe stowage : may it please you 

To take them in protection? 

Imogen. Willingly ; 

And pawn mine honor for their safety : since 
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them 
In my bedchamber. 

Iachimo. They are in a trunk, 

Attended by my men : I will make bold 
To send them to you, only for this night ; 
I must aboard to-morrow. 
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please 
To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. 

Imogen. I will write. 
Send your trunk to me ; it shall safe be kept, 
And truly yielded you. 

Wholly unsuspicious of the trap which the crafty 
Italian had set to betray her, Imogen prayed as she fell 
asleep : — 

To your protection I commend me, gods. 

From fairies and the tempters of the night 

Guard me, beseech ye. 

1 anxious. 
415 



Then lachimo crept out of the trunk in which he had 
concealed himself. He was entranced by the sight of the 
sleeping loveliness of the fair princess, but no spark of 
pity moved his cold heart. He stole about stealthily, 
observing every detail of the furnishings of the room, 
that he might the better palm off his lying tale upon 
Posthumus. He said to himself : — 

I will write all down : 
Such and such pictures ; there the window ; such 
The adornment of her bed ; the arras ; figures, 
Why, such and such ; and the contents o' the story. 

Imogen had been reading, and had left the volume 
open when she fell asleep. Then, bending over her, he 
continued : — 

Ah, but some natural notes about her body 
xA-bove ten thousand meaner movables 
Would testify to enrich mine inventory. 
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her. 

So soundly did Imogen sleep that she did not feel his 
guilty fingers as they took off her bracelet, the parting 
gift of Posthumus, which she wore night and day. 
Having secured it, lachimo murmured triumphantly : — 

'Tis mine ; and this will witness outwardly. 

As strongly as the conscience does within, 

To the madding of her lord. On her left breast 

A mole cinques-spotted, like the crimson drops 

I' the bottom of a cowshp : here's a voucher, 

Stronger than ever law could make. I have enough : 

1 five. 
416 



To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. 
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning 
May bare the raven's eye ! I lodge in fear ; 
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. 

As if lachimo's base plotting against her were not 
enough, Imogen's rest was disturbed by the playing of 
musicians who had been hired by Cloten, in the vain 
hope of inducing her to favor his suit. They sang : — 

Hark, hark I the lark at heaveii's gate sings, 

And Phoebus ^gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those spiings 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes : 
With everything that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise : 
Ai'ise, arise. 

lachimo made such speed on his return journey to 
Rome that Posthumus argued rightly that he had been 
unsuccessful in his dishonorable suit. He was ready 
with his forged tale, however, beginning with praise of 
Imogen's beauty. 

lAcmMO. Your lady 

Is one of the fairest that I have looked upon. 

Posthumus. And therewithal the best ; or let her beauty 
Look through a casement to allure false hearts 
And be false with them. 

lAcmMO. Had I not brought 

The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant 
We were to question further : but I now 
2E 417 



Profess myself the winner of her honor, 
Together with your ring. 

PosTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent, my hand 
And ring is yours ; if not, the foul opinion 
You had of her pure honor gains or loses 
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both 
To who shall find them. 

While lachimo was describing minutely the furnish- 
ings and decorations of Imogen's chamber, Posthumus 
listened unbelieving, for he said that lachimo might 
have gained that information from another person who 
was familiar with the place ; but when the false villain 
showed the bracelet which Posthumus had put on his 
wife's arm at parting, he turned pale and exclaimed : — 

Once more let me behold it : is it that 
Which I left with her ? 

Iachimo. Sir — I thank her — that : 

She stripped it from her arm ; I see her yet ; 
Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 
And yet enriched it too : she gave it me, and said 
She prized it once. 

Even then Posthumus could not believe that Imogen 
was false. He thought that, perhaps, she had sent the 
bracelet to him ; but when lachimo suggested that, in 
that case, she would have mentioned it in the letter that 
he had brought, Posthumus lost faith in her truth, and 
railed bitterly against womankind, as he handed lachimo 
the ring that he had wagered upon his wife's honor, 
saying : — 

418 



Here, take this too ; 

It is a basilisk unto mine eye, 

Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honor 

Where there is beauty ; truth, where semblance ; love, 

Where there's another man : the vows of women 

Of no more bondage be, to where they are made. 

Than they are to their virtues ; which is nothing. 

O, above measure, false ! 

When Posthumus went into exile, he left with Imogen 
one faithful servant, Pisanio by name, on whose single- 
hearted devotion he knew that they could safely rely. 
The queen had sought in vain to bribe Pisanio to influ- 
ence Imogen in favor of her son's suit. No offers of 
wealth or promotion could induce Pisanio to swerve 
from his honorable allegiance to his master. 

Imagine, then, Pisanio's consternation when he re- 
ceived from Posthumus a letter commanding him to take 
the life of Imogen because, as he said, she had been 
false to her wifely honor. Of the truth of this charge 
Posthumus wrote that he had sufficient proof, but he did 
not reveal the source of this evil report. 

Pisanio, knowing his mistress to be pure as an angel, 
felt sure that his master had been abused by an enemy. 
In his distress he moaned : — 

O master ! what a strange infection 
Is fallen into thy ear ! What false Itahan, 
As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevailed 
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal ! No ; 
She's punished for her truth, and undergoes. 
More goddess-like than wife-hke, such assaults 
419 



As would take in some virtue. O my master ! 
Thy mind to her is now as low as were 
Thy fortunes. How ! that I should murder her, 
Upon the love and truth and vows which I 
Have made to thy command? — I, her? — her 

blood? 
If it be so to do good service, never 
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, 
That I should seem to lack humanity 
So much as this fact comes to? 
Lo, here she comes. 
I am ignorant in what I am commanded. 



'to' 



Pisanio nov^ gave Imogen a letter which Posthumus 
had sent to her, in which he told her that his love could 
no longer content itself without a sight of her dear face ; 
that he had, therefore, risked the danger of being discov- 
ered ; and that he was, even then, at a place called Mil- 
ford Haven, on the outskirts of Cymbeline's dominions. 
He ended his treacherous letter thus : — 

What your own love will out of this advise you^ follow. So 
he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and 
your, increasing in love, Leonatus Posthumus. 

O for a horse with wings ! — 

exclaimed the unsuspecting Imogen, in her eagerness to 
join the beloved husband, who, as she thought, was im- 
patiently awaiting her at Milford Haven. She would not 
listen to any word of fear as to the outcome of the jour- 
ney, for which she bade Pisanio prepare at once, but 
replied to his entreaty that she would consider the 
danger : — 

420 



I see before me, man : nor here, nor here, 
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, 
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee ; 
Do as I bid thee : there's no more to say ; 
Accessible is none but Milford way. 

Not until they reached their destination did the 
faithful servant give his mistress a hint of the woful 
secret. Then, for reply to Imogen's exclamations of 
disappointment at not finding her husband there, he 
handed her Posthumus's letter wherein he had in- 
structed Pisanio to slay her at Milford Haven. She 
turned so pale on reading the awful missive, that Pi- 
sanio thought that she would die of horror at the cruel 
charge. Utterly bewildered, the wronged wife wailed : — 

False to his bed ! What is it to be false ? 

To lie in watch there and to think on him? 

To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? if sleep charge nature, 

To break it with a fearful dream of him. 

And cry myself awake? that's false to's bed, is it? 

Pisanio. Alas, good lady ! 

Imogen. I false ! Thy conscience witness. lachimo, 
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency ; 
Thou then look'dst like a villain ; now methinks 
Thy favor's^ good enough. Some jay of Italy, 
Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him : 
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; O, 
Men's vows are women's traitors ! 

Pisanio. Good madam, hear me. 

Imogen. Come, fellow, be thou honest; 
Do thou thy master's bidding : when thou see'st him, 
A little witness my obedience : look ! 

1 countenance, expression. 
421 



I draw the sword myself : take it, and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart : 
Fear not ; 'tis empty of all things but grief: 
Thy master is not there, who was indeed 
The riches of it : do his bidding ; strike. 

PiSANio. Hence, vile instrument ! 

Imogen. ^^^hy, I must die ; 

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art 
No servant of thy master's. Prithee, despatch : 
The lamb entreats the butcher: where's thy knife? 
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, 
When I desire it too. 

PiSANio. O gracious lady, 

Since I received command to do this business, 
I have not slept one wink. 

Imogen. Wherefore then 

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused 
So many miles with a pretence? this place? 
Mine action and thine own? the perturbed court 
For my being absent? whereunto I never 
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far, 
To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand. 
The elected deer before thee? 

PiSANio. But to win time 

To lose so bad employment ; in the which 
I have considered of a course. Good lady. 
Hear me with patience. 

Pisanio then unfolded the plan which he had formed 
for Imogen's further action. His love for both his 
sweet mistress and for his master, who, he was con- 
vinced, had been foully deceived, determined him to save 
Imogen's life, in the hope that the truth would, in some 
way, be made known. 

422 



Just at this time, an ambassador from the Roman em- 
peror, Augustus, was at the court of Cymbehne, threat- 
ening him with speedy war, unless Britain should pay 
the tribute which had been promised to Rome, and 
which was long past due. This ambassador, Caius 
Lucius, would come to Milford Haven on his return, 
and Pisanio suggested that Imogen should don a page's 
suit which he had provided for this emergency, and 
seek to enter the service of the Roman. Pisanio hoped 
that, if Imogen should go to Italy, she might chance to 
meet her husband, in which case he felt sure that Post- 
humus would learn that she had always been true to 
him. 

The plan seemed good to the unhappy Imogen, and 
she quickly transformed herself into the guise of a boy. 
The change of dress was the more necessary as Pisanio 
was about to return to the court, lest he might be sus- 
pected of having spirited Imogen away. Before start- 
ing, however, he gave his mistress a box of cordial 
which he had received from the queen, and which she 
had told him would cure any distemper. 

For two days Imogen wandered in search of the 
Roman, but without finding him ; and two nights the 
tenderly nurtured princess made the ground her bed. 
On the third day, faint with hunger, she happened upon 
a cave, wherein, to her great joy, she found plenty of 
food. She was so intent upon satisfying her hunger 
that she did not hear the approach of the owners of the 
cave, who had been hunting in the forest. 

The elder man discovered Imogen as he was about to 

423 



enter, and he whispered to his companions, two noble 

youths : — 

Stay : come not in. 
But that it eats our victuals, I should think 
Here were a fairy. 

What's the matter, sir? 

asked Guiderius, one of the young men. Belarius, the 
elder man, replied : — 

By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not, 

An earthly paragon ! Behold divineness 

No elder than a boy ! 

Startled by their voices, Imogen came forward, say- 
ing:— 

Good masters, harm me not : 

Before I entered here, I called ; and thought 

To have begged or bought what I have took : good troth, 

I have stolen naught, nor would not, though I had found 

Gold strewed i' the floor. Here's money for my meat : 

I would have left it on the board so soon 

As I had made my meal, and parted^ 

With prayers for the provider. 

Belarius. Prithee, fair youth, 

Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds 
By this rude place we live in. Well encountered ! 
'Tis almost night : you shall have better cheer 
Ere you depart ; and thanks to stay and eat it. 
Boys, bid him welcome. 

The brothers needed no urging, for they were charmed 
with the newcomer's beauty and graceful manner. 

1 departed. 
424 



When they desired to know her name, Imogen's quick 
wit invented one that had a meaning expressive of her 
faith and constancy. Fidele, she called herself to these 
new friends. In return for their hospitality, Imogen 
took upon herself the duties of a housewife, for, in the 
old days, princesses were carefully instructed in the arts 
of home-making. Her skill called forth high praise from 
Belarius, who said : — 

This youth, hovve'er distressed, appears he hath had 
Good ancestors. 

GuiDERius. His neat cookery ! he cut our roots in 
characters 
And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick. 
And he her dieter. 

When they were ready to hunt again, Imogen excused 
herself from accompanying her hosts on the plea of ill- 
ness, and when she was left alone she took the drug 
that Pisanio had given her, hoping by this means to find 
relief from the dreadful heart-sickness that oppressed her. 
The effect of this drug was to induce a death-Hke trance. 

Arviragus, the younger brother, found Imogen in this 
condition when he returned, and taking the beautiful 
body in his arms, he bore it into the open air, telling the 

others : — 

The bird is dead 
That we have niade so much on. I had rather 
Have skipped from sixteen years of age to sixty 
Than have seen this. 

Belarius. Thou blessed thing ! 

Jove knows what man thou mightst have made ; but I, 

425 



Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. 
How found you him ? 

Arviragus. Stark, as you see : 

Thus smiUng, as some fly had tickled slumber. 
Not as death's dart, being laughed at ; his right cheek 
Reposing on a cushion. 

GuiDERius. Where? 

Arviragus. O' the floor ; 

His arms thus leagued : I thought he slept, and put 
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness 
Answered my steps too loud. With fairest flowers 
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
Out-sweetened not thy breath : the ruddock^ would, 
With charitable bill, bring thee all this ; 
Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none, 
To winter-ground thy corse. 

Then the brothers laid the body of Imogen tenderly 
on the ground, beside the grave of their mother, strew- 
ing it with flowers, and singing the while : — 

Fear no moj'e the heat o' the sun, 

Nor the fici'ious winter's 7'ages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and to' en thy wages : 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepei's , come to dust. 

Fear no wore the fj'own o' the great; 
Thou art past the ty7'anfs stroke ; 

1 robin. 
426 



Ca7-e no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 
The sceptre, teaming, physic, must 
A/i follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no moi-e the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovei^s yoimg, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee I 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee I 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 

Nothing ill come near thee ! 
Quiet consummation have ! 
And renowned be thy grave I 

When Imogen's absence became known at court, 
Cloten, fearing lest she should escape him altogether, 
decided to follow, and find her if possible. This he did 
in the hope of revenging himself upon her who had 
treated him with contempt, telling him that she valued 
her husband's cast-off clothing more highly than his 
princely person. He demanded of Pisanio, who had 
now returned to court : — 

Where is thy lady ? Close villain, 

I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip 

Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? 

Pisanio. Alas, my lord, 
How can she be with him? When was she missed? 
He is in Rome. 

Cloten. Where is she, sir? Come nearer; 

427 



No further halting : satisfy me home 
What is become of her? 

PiSANio. O, my all-worthy lord ! 

Cloten. All-worthy villain, 

Discover where thy mistress is at once, 
At the next word : no more of " worthy lord " ! 
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is 
Thy condemnation and thy death. 

Thus adjured, Pisanio showed Cloten Posthumus's 
letter in which he said that he would come to Milford 
Haven. In doing this, Pisanio felt sure that no harm 
could come thereby either to his master or his mistress, 
for he supposed that they were both out of England then. 

At Cloten's demand, Pisanio brought him a suit of 
his master's, by means of which Cloten intended to 
lead Imogen to mistake him for her husband. He com- 
manded Pisanio : — 

Bring this apparel to my chamber ; that is the second thing 
that I have commanded thee : the third is, that thou wilt be 
a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true 
preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at 
Milford : would I had wings to follow it ! Come, and be true. 

As Pisanio watched the retreating form of Cloten, 
he said to himself : — 

Thou bid'st me to thy loss : for true to thee 
Were to prove false, which I will never be, 
To him that is most true. To Milford go, 
And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, 
You heavenly blessings, on her ! This fool's speed 
Be crossed with slowness ; labor be his meed ! 

428 



It seems surprising that a prince should trust himself 
on any expedition without attendants ; but Cloten was 
bent upon imposing upon Imogen as her banished 
husband — the stupid fellow thinking that, if he wore 
the same clothes, he could deceive the anxious wife. 

On the very day that Imogen was found in that 
deathlike trance, Cloten encountered Belarius and the 
two brothers, and the others avoiding him, he called to 

Guiderius : — 

Soft ! What are you 
That fly me thus ? some villain mountaineers ? 
I have heard of such. What slave art thou ? 

Guiderius. A thing 

More slavish did I ne'er than answering 
A slave without a knock. 

Cloten. Thou art a robber, 

A law-breaker, a villain ; yield thee, thief. 

Guiderius. To who ? to thee ? What art thou ? Have 
not I 
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big? 
Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not 
My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art, 
Why I should yield to thee? 

Cloten. Thou villain base, 

Know'st me not by my clothes ? 

Guiderius. No, nor thy tailor, rascal. 

Who is thy grandfather : he made those clothes, 
Which, as it seems, make thee. 

Cloten. Thou injurious thief, 

Hear but my name, and tremble. 

Guiderius. What's thy name? 

Cloten. Cloten, thou villain. 

Guiderius. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, 

429 



I cannot tremble at it : were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, 
'Twould move me sooner. 

Cloten. To thy further fear, 

Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know 
I am son to the queen. 

GuiDERius. I am sorry for't ; not seeming 

So worthy as thy birth. 

Cloten. Art not afeard? 

GuiDERius. Those that I reverence those I fear, the 
wise : 
At fools I laugh, not fear them. 

Cloten. Die the death : 

When I have slain thee with my proper^ hand, 
I'll follow those that even now fled hence, 
And on the gates of Lud's ^ town set your heads : 
Yield, rustic mountaineer. 

In the fight that ensued Guiderius easily overcame 
the bragging prince. After killing him, he, in accord- 
ance with the custom of those old crude times, cut off 
the head of his slain enemy. 

When Belarius learned what the rash young man 
had done, he was greatly alarmed, for he realized what 
vengeance was likely to fall upon one who had killed 
a member of the royal family. Belarius, you will 
remember, was the name of the king's officer who, 
when he was unjustly accused of treason, had stolen 
the sons of Cymbeline. They had grown up in the 
mountains, all unaware of their princely birth, and 
loving Belarius as their father. Now that they were 
grown, however, they showed the noble qualities and 

1 own. 2 the old name for London. 



the heroic valor that we Hke to think of as belonging 
naturally to princes. Belarius recognized this fact, and 
he felt that this deed of the elder son might have grave 
consequences. He said to himself : — 

O thou goddess, 
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st 
In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet. 
Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, 
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonder 
That an invisible instinct should frame them 
To royalty unlearned, honor untaught. 
Civility not seen from other, valor 
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop 
As if it had been sowed. Yet still it's strange 
What Cloten's being here to us portends, 
Or what his death will bring us. 

After some time, the effect of the drug passed off, 
and Imogen slowly awoke to find herself lying upon 
the ground, and covered with flowers. She was bewil- 
dered, however, and had no clear recollection of what 
had happened before she had fallen asleep. As she 
rose to her feet, she was horrified to see beside her the 
headless body of a man dressed in the well-known 
clothes of Posthumus. Almost crazed with grief, she 
inferred that Pisanio had plotted with Cloten to put 
her husband to death, and to stupefy her with the drug. 
In utter despair, she threw herself upon the body of 
her supposed lord. 

431 



There she was found by the Roman ambassador, 
Lucius, and some other officers of the Roman army 
which had just landed in Britain for the purpose of 
compelling Cymbeline to pay the neglected tribute. 
On seeing the strange spectacle, Lucius exclaimed : — 

Soft, ho ! what trunk is here 
Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime 
It was a worthy building. How ! a page ! 
Or dead, or sleeping on him ? But dead rather ; 
For nature doth abhor to make his bed 
With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. 
Let's see the boy's face. 

Captain. He's alive, my lord. 

Lucius. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, 
Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems 
They crave to be demanded. Who is this 
Thou makest thy bloody pillow? Or who was he 
That, othenvise than noble nature did, 
Hath altered that good picture ? What's thy interest 
In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it? 
What art thou ? 

Imogen. I am nothing : or if not, 

Nothing to be were better. This was my master, 
A very valiant Briton and a good. 
That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas ! 
There is no more such masters : I may wander 
From east to Occident, cry out for service. 
Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
Find such another master. 

Lucius. Alack, good youth ! 

Thou movest no less with thy complaining than 
Thy master in bleeding. Thy name? 

Imogen. Fidele, sir. 

432 



Lucius. Thou dost approve thyself the very same : 
Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith, thy name. 
Wilt take thy chance with me ? I will not say 
Thou shalt be so well mastered, but, be sure, 
No less beloved. The Roman emperor's letters, 
Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner 
Than thine own worth prefer thee : go with me. 

Thus was Pisanio's advice that Imogen should seek 
service with the Roman ambassador strangely accom- 
plished. But Pisanio himself, no more than other mem- 
bers of the court, knew what had happened to Imogen 
or Cloten. 

The queen, whose plottings had all come to naught, 
was lying dangerously ill, and the weak king, who had 
so long acted only under the advice of the queen, was 
perplexed in the extreme. Still, he was ready to meet 

the Romans, saying : — 

We fear not 
What can from Italy annoy us ; but 
We grieve at chances here. 

Pisanio did not dare let any one know the special 
cause of his anxiety, but he thought : — 

I heard no letter from my master since 
I wrote him Imogen was slain : 'tis strange : 
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise 
To yield me often tidings ; neither know I 
What is betid to Cloten ; but remain 
Perplexed in all. The heavens still must work. 
Wherein I am false I am honest ; not true, to be true. 
These present wars shall find I love my country. 
Even to the note o' the king, or I'll fall in them. 
2F 433 



All other doubts, by time let them be cleared : 
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered. 

When Posthumus received Pisanio's letter containing 
the false report of Imogen's death, the Roman army 
was about to embark for Britain. Having lost, as he 
thought, all that made life of any worth, he decided 
to join the Roman troops. But once upon British 
soil, he could not bring himself to fight against his 
country, so he dressed himself in the clothing of a 
peasant, and quietly entered the ranks of the British. 
In his distress of mind, he even blamed Pisanio for 
having obeyed his commands too exactly. His love 
and grief forced him to lament : — 

O Pisanio ! 
Every good servant does not all commands : 
No bond but to do just ones. Gods ! if you 
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never 
Had lived to put on this : so had you saved 
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck 
Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack, 
You snatch some hence for little faults : you some permit 
To second ills with ills, each elder worse. 
And make them dread it, to the doers' thrift. 
But Imogen is your own : do your best wills. 
And make me blest to obey ! I am brought hither 
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight 
Against my lady's kingdom : 'tis enough 
That, Britain, I have killed thy mistress ; peace ! 
I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, 
Hear patiently my purpose : I'll disrobe me 
Of these Italian weeds and suit myself 

434 



As does a Briton peasant : so I'll fight 
Against the part I come with; so I'll die 
For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life 
Is every breath a death ; and thus, unknown, 
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril 
Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know 
More valor in me than my habits^ show. 

With the Roman army came also the false lachimo, 
whose conscience had given him no rest since he had 
so wickedly betrayed both Imogen and Posthumus. In 
the battle that followed, lachimo was disarmed by 
Posthumus, whom he did not recognize in his peasant's 
garb. lachimo attributed his defeat to his own guilty 
heart, saying : — 

The heaviness and guilt within my bosom ■ 
Takes off my manhood : I have belied a lady. 
The princess of this country, and the air on't 
Revengingly enfeebles me. 

At one time during the battle, it seemed that the 
Romans would carry off the palm of victory; but just 
as Cymbeline was seized by the enemy, the brave moun- 
taineers, near whose cave the engagement took place, 
rushed to the rescue of the king, rallied the Britons, 
and saved the day. Lucius was captured, together with 
his page. Posthumus, since he could not find the death 
he coveted in the battle, gave himself up, hoping that, 
when Cymbeline should discover him, he would suffer 
the death which had been threatened if he should return 
from exile. ' 

1 garments. 
435 



And now, unknown to one another, were assembled 
in the presence of the king all the persons with whom 
this story has to do. In accordance with the cruel cus- 
toms of warfare in those days, Lucius expected that 
death would be his fate. With manly courage he faced 
the British king, saying : — 

Consider, sir, the chance of war : the day 

Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, 

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threatened 

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods 

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives 

May be called ransom, let it come : sufficeth 

A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer : 

Augustus lives to think on't : and so much 

For my peculiar care. This one thing only 

I will entreat ; my boy, a Briton born, 

Let him be ransomed : never master had 

A page so kind, so duteous, dihgent. 

So feat,^ so nurse-like : let his virtue join 

With my request, which I'll make bold your highness 

Cannot deny ; he hath done no Briton harm. 

Though he have served a Roman : save him, sir, 

And spare no blood beside. 

Cymbeline was, though why he could not tell, moved 
by the winning grace of the page, who was, as we know, 
his daughter in disguise. He not only granted the page 
his life, but said that he would grant any favor that the 
boy might ask. Lucius expected that the page, grate- 
ful for his intercession, would ask that his life be spared, 
but Imogen had spied lachimo among the prisoners, 

1 graceful. 
436 



and she saw the ring that she had given Posthumus on his 
finger. She felt that Hfe and all depended upon her learn- 
ing how he had obtained that ring. So she said : — 

My boon is, that this gentleman may render 
Of whom he had this ring. 

Cymbeline. That diamond upon your finger, say 
How came it yours? 

Iachimo. I am glad to be constrained to utter that 
Which torments me to conceal. By villany 
I got this ring. 

Then Iachimo made a clean breast of the whole story 
of his treachery. When he came to tell how he had 
lied to Posthumus, the wronged husband could restrain 
himself no longer, but proclaimed himself, and confessed 
that he, deceived by lachimo's false story, had ordered 
Pisanio to kill his mistress. In his bitter grief and rage, 
he now called for torturers to punish the villain, and 
again he accused himself as a murderer. He cried 

aloud : — 

The temple of virtue was she. O Imogen ! 
My queen, my Hfe, my wife ! O Imogen, 
Imogen, Imogen ! 

His feelings were so wrought upon that he could not 
brook the slightest word from any one, and when Imo- 
gen herself said : — 

Peace, my lord ; hear, hear — 

Posthumus struck her down, exclaiming : — 

Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, 
There lie thy part. 

437 



This was more than Pisanio could bear, and he rushed 
to the aid of his mistress, calling out, as he did so : — 

O, gentlemen, help ! 
Mine and your mistress ! O my lord Posthumus ! 
You ne'er killed Imogen till now. Help, help ! 
Mine honored lady ! 

Cymbeline. Does the world go round? 
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me 
To death with mortal joy. 

Imogen soon revived, and in the joy of being reunited 
to the wife whom he had so wrongfully suspected, Post- 
humus forgave the now repentant lachimo, who knelt 

and implored him : — 

Take that life, beseech you, 
Which I so often owe : but your ring first ; 
And here the bracelet of the truest princess 
That ever swore her faith. 

Posthumus. Kneel not to me : 

The power that I have on you is to spare you ; 
The malice towards you to forgive you : live, 
And deal with others better. 

Cymbeline. Nobly doomed ! ^ 

We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law : 
Pardon's the word to all. 

It was now Belarius's turn to confess the wrong of 
which he had been guilty in robbing the king of his 
sons in their childhood. Coming forward, he said to 
Cymbeline : — 

Thou had St, great king, a subject who 
Was called Belarius. 

1 judged, sentenced. 
438 



Cymbeline. What of him ? he is 

A banished traitor. 

Belarius. Indeed a banished man ; 

I know not how a traitor. 

Cymbeline. Take him hence : 

The whole world shall not save him. 

Belarius. Not too hot : 

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons. 

Cymbeline. Nursing of my sons ! 

Belarius. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee : 
Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons ; 
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, 
These two young gentlemen, that call me father. 
And think they are my sons, are none of mine j 
They are the issue of your loins, my liege, 
And blood of your begetting. I 
Am that Belarius whom you sometime ^ banished : 
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment 
Itself, and all my treason ; that I suffered 
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes — 
For such and so they are — these twenty years 
Have I trained up. Their nurse, Euriphile, 
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children 
Upon my banishment : I moved her to't. 
Having received the punishment before, 
For that which I did then : beaten for loyalty 
Excited me to treason. But gracious sir, 
Here are your sons again ; and I must lose 
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. 
The benediction of these covering heavens 
Fall on their heads like dew ! for they are worthy 
To inlay heaven with stars. 

Cymbeline. Thou weep'st, and speak'st. 

1 formerly. 

439 



The service that you three have done is more 
Unhke than this thou tell'st. I lost my children : 
If these be they, I know not how to wish 
A pair of worthier sons. O Imogen, 
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. 

Imogen. No, my lord ; 

I have got two worlds by it. O my gentle brothers, 
Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter 
But I am truest speaker : you called me brother, 
When I was but your sister ; I, you, brothers, 
When ye were so indeed. 

So great was Cymbeline's happiness in recovering all 
of his children, that he spared the lives of all the Roman 
prisoners, and promised to pay the tribute which he had 
refused by the advice of his wicked queen, news of 
whose death had just been received. 

In token of the happy ending of all their sad errors, 
Cym.beline proclaimed : — 

Publish we this peace 
To all our subjects. Set we forward : let 
A Roman and a British ensign wave 
Friendly together : so through Lud's town march : 
And in the temple of great Jupiter 
Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. 
Set on there ! Never was a war did cease. 
Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace. 



440 



ALLUSIONS EXPLAINED 

THE TEMPEST 

Page 4. Jove's lightnings, the precursors 

O^ th^ dreadful thunder-claps. 

Jove, or Jupiter, king of gods, according to Greek mythology, holds the 
thunderbolts in his hand, ready to hurl them against those who offend 
him. 

P. 5. TVz^ i'/z7/-z^(?;c^^i5^r/;zc<?//z^j' .• the ever-disturbed Bermudas. These 
islands are surrounded by rugged rocks, over which the waves dash con- 
tinually. 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 

P. 28. On Dian''s altar to protest 

For aye austerity and single life. 

Diana, the virgin goddess of the moon, was the special guardian of 
maidens. Hence, she who dedicated her life to Diana must remain 
unmarried. 

P. 30. Ere the leviathan can swim a league : the leviathan is men- 
tioned in the Bible as the largest of sea animals; therefore it would be 
able to swim a long distance in a very short space of time. 

P. 35. Dian'' s bud o"" er Cupid'' s flower 

Hath such force a7id blessed power. 

Since Diana is the chaste virgin goddess, the juice of the flower sacred 
to her would be thought able to undo the mischief done by the charm of 
Cupid, the little god of love. 

P. 38. N'ighfs swift dragons : the chariot of Night was fabled to be 
drawn by dragons. 

441 



Auj'ora's harbinger : Aurora was the goddess of the dawn; her har- 
binger is the morning star which heralds the dawn. 
Neptune : the god of the sea. 

ROMEO AND JULIET 

P. 58. The pale reflex of Cynthia^s brow : Cynthia is another name 
for Diana, the moon-goddess. It is derived from Mount Cynthus in Delos, 
fabled to be her birthplace. 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

P. 74. Afy wealthy Andreiu (Italian Andrea) : the name is supposed 
to have been given to large vessels because of the honor in which Andrea 
Doria, a famous Genoese admiral, was held. 

P. 75. By two-headed Janus : Janus, in Roman mythology god of the 
sun's rising and setting, was represented with two faces, one looking to 
the east, the other to the west. One face was merry, the other, grave. 

Nestor : the oldest of the Greek heroes who engaged in the siege of 
Troy, famed for his wisdom and gravity. 

P. 77. Cato^s daughter, Brutus'' Portia : Portia, wife of Brutus, one of 
the leaders in the conspiracy against the life of Julius Caesar, was distin- 
guished for her virtues and her noble constancy. 

Her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece . 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos strand. 
And 7nany Jasons come in quest of her. 

The suitors for Portia's hand are here likened to Jason, who led the 
Argonautic expedition in search of the Golden Fleece, renowned in 
legend. By the aid of Medea, daughter of the king of Colchis, in whose 
dominions the Golden Fleece was kept, Jason succeeded in carrying off 
the treasure. 

P. 78, The Rialto : the chief of the islands on which Venice was built 
was called Isola di Rialto^ the Island of the Deep Stream. The name 
Rialto came also to be applied to the Exchange, which was on that 
island. It is the Exchange which is here meant — "a most stately build- 
ing . . . where the Venetian gentlemen and the merchants doe meet twice 

442 



a day, betwixt eleven and twelve of the clocke in the morning, and betwixt 
five and six of the clocke in the afternoon." — Rolfe's Notes. 

P. 79. To eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, con- 
jured the devil into. The Mosaic law forbade the Jews to eat pork. The 
allusion refers to the act of Jesus in permitting the evil spirits, which 
he had expelled from two men, to enter a herd of swine. See Matt, 
viii. 32. 

P. 85. If I live to be as old as Sibylla : an allusion to the Cumoean 
sibyl, who obtained from Apollo a promise that her years should be as 
many as the grains of sand she was holding in her hand. 

P. 86. Phoebus'' fire : the heat of the sun. Phoebus is the same as 
Apollo, the god of the sun. 

P. 94. The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars : Hercules, re- 
nowned in Greek mythology for his twelve labors, symbolizes strength; 
Mars, the god of war, stands for valor. 

Livers white as milk : courage was anciently believed to be seated in 
the liver. Since fear blanches the face, cowardice was attributed to a 
white liver. 

Hard food for Midas : an allusion to the story of Midas, king of 
Phrygia, who obtained from a god the power to change whatever he 
touched to gold; but when he found his food turned to gold, he en- 
treated the god to take his gift back again. 

P. no. There'' s not the smallest orb which thou behold'' st 
But in his motion like an angel sings. 

The ancients had a beautiful belief that the planets in their motion 
gave out musical sounds; this idea is known as the "music of the 
spheres." 

Such harmony is in immortal souls : " Besides the music of the spheres, 
which no mortal ear ever caught a note of, there was by some philoso- 
phers supposed to be a harmony in the human soul." — Rolfe. 

AS YOU LIKE IT 

P. 117. Robin Hood: a traditionary English outlaw, who lived a wild 
and merry life in a wood, together with his followers. Sherwood Forest 
was one of his favorite haunts. 

443 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 

P. 144. By gogs-wouns : a corruption of by God's wounds; other 
forms are ''swounds and zounds. 



HAMLET 

P. 245. Hyperion to a satyr : Hyperion is, as here, often identified 
with Apollo, the ideal of manly beauty; used here in antithesis to a satyr 

— a monstrosity, part man and part goat. 

P. 262. Vulcan's stithy : Vulcan was the god of fire and the forge. 
Several volcanoes, notably that of Etna, were thought to be his work- 
shops. 

P. 263. Ftill thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round, etc. 
The meaning of this passage of six lines is, in prose, " We have been mar- 
ried thirty years." 

P. 269. Hyperion's curls, etc. Hamlet describes his father as possess- 
ing every kind of beauty — the glor}' of Apollo, the valor of i\Iars, the 
grace of Mercury. 

P. 278. Old Pelion or the skyish head 

Of blue Olympus. 

Pelion and Olympus were mountains in Thessaly; Olympus was regarded 
as the home of the great gods. 

P. 279. Ossa : another mountain in Thessaly near Pelion and Olympus. 

MACBETH 

P. 288. 77ie Prince of Cumberland: "The crown of Scotland was 
not, at this time, strictly hereditary, and when the successor to the reign- 
ing king was named, he was made Prince of Cumberland." — White. 

P. 291. Like the poor cat V the adage: "Given thus in Heywood's 
proverbs, 1562 : 'The cat would eat fysche, and would not wet her feete.' " 

— Clark and Wright. 

P. 295. Destroy yotir sight with a nexv Gorgon : the head of Medusa, 
one of the Gorgons, was so fearful to look upon that whoever beheld it 
was turned to stone. 

P. 303. The most pious Edward : Edward the Confessor. 

444 



THE WINTER'S TALE 

P, 315. Nine changes of the watery star hath been 

The shepherd'' s note. 

Nine months have passed; the watery star is the moon, which in early 
days marked the passage of time for shepherds as they kept their flocks 
by night. 

P. 332. Flora peering in ApriVs front : Flora was the goddess of 
flowers. Florizel compares Perdita decked with flowers to the goddess 
of flowers appearing in early April. 

P- 333- Juno's eyes : Juno was the wife of Jupiter and queen of the 
gods. 

Cytherea's breath : Cytherea was a surname sometimes given to Venus, 
the goddess of love. 

CYMBELINE 

P. 427. Quiet consummation have : an allusion to a prayer in the 
burial service of the Church of England : " that we, with all those th^t 
are departed in the true faith of thy holy Name, may have our perfect 
consummation and bliss, both in body and soul, in thy eternal and 
everlasting glory." 



445 



THE TEMPLE SHAKESPEARE 

EDITED BY 

MR. ISRAEL GOLLANCZ 

40 volumes. 32nio. Cloth. 45 cents each. Also bound in paste-grain 

roan. 65 cents each 



THE TEMPEST 

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

COMEDY OF ERRORS 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 

MERCHANT OF VENICE 

AS YOU LIKE IT 

TAMING OF THE SHREW 

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 

TWELFTH NIGHT 

WINTER'S TALE 

KING JOHN 

RICHARD II 

HENRY IV. Part I; Part II 

HENRY V 



HENRY VI. Part I ; Part II ; Part III 

(Here, as in the case of Henry IV, each Part 
is a separate volume) 

RICHARD III 

HENRY VIII 

HAMLET 

KING LEAR 

OTHELLO 

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 

CORIOLANUS 

TITUS ANDRONICUS 

ROMEO AND JULIET 

TIMON OF ATHENS 

JULIUS C^SAR 

MACBETH 

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 

CYMBELINE 

PERICLES 

VENUS AND ADONIS 

RAPE OF LUCRECE 

SONNETS 



" Both compiler and publisher have done their work well, and the completed 
edition is at once popular and scholarly — a rare and happy combination which it 
is a pleasure to commend." — Chicago Tribu?ie. 

" The most fastidious taste will be satisfied by an edition so refined without, so 
superfine within. The most exacting demand would be met by the gift of these 
dainty volumes, one or all, at the approaching gift season." — Public Ledger, Phila- 
delphia. 

" For general reading and for class-room use there is perhaps no better edition 
than the ' Temple.' "— The Dial, Chicago. 

"Certainly no more successful combination of beauty and utility exists in the 
book-making ^.xi." — Boston Home Journal. 

" No more convenient and altogether satisfactory pocket reading edition of 
Shakespeare's poems and plays than this has been published." — The Independent, 
New York. 

" To sum up the many excellencies of this edition of Shakespeare is to declare 
it the most convenient and beautiful of the many small editions of Shakespeare 
that have appeared, and their name is legion." — The Churchman. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 



LIBRARY EDITION 



OF 



THE TEMPLE SHAKESPEARE 

Edited by MR. GOLLANCZ 

Twelve volumes. i2mo. Cloth. $1.50 each. Also a limited edition 

on hand-made paper. Demy 8vo. Buckram. $42.00 a set. 

Demy 8vo. Half Levant. $78.00 a set 



"The edition is a very desirable one." — Evening Telegraph, Pliiladelphia. 

" The edition promises to be one of the most attractive of the many forms in 
which Shakespeare's works have been published." — The Outlook. 

" Portable and beautiful, light to hold, and easy to read." — The Mail and 
Express. 



THE CAMBRIDGE SHAKESPEARE 

Edited by W. A. WRIGHT, LL.D. 

Nine volumes. 8vo. Each $3.00 



A SHAKESPEARE CONCORDANCE 

By JOHN BARTLETT, A.M. 
4to. Cloth. $7.50, net 

A complete concordance or verbal index to words, phrases, and passages in the 
dramatic works, with a supplementary concordance to the poems. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

POET, DRAMATIST, AND MAN 
By HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 

Author of-" My Study Fire," " L/nder the Trees and Elsewhere'' etc. 

With 100 illustrations. Third edition with corrections 
Cloth. Crown 8vo. $2.00, net 

" Mr. Mabie has provided a comprehensive, sober, and enlightening account of 
the life-work of the master-spirit of the English-speaking race." — The Dial. 

" Air. IMabie's good judgment, just feeling, and literary skill have fashioned a 
book which should prove useful and enjoyable to many readers, and the book is 
rendered yet more attractive by a large number of well-chosen and well-executed 
illustrations ... so well planned, it touches so many points, it is so right in feeling, 
and so agreeably written, that we give it a cordial welcome." 

— Prof. Edward T^oyNT)YM,\\\\\iQ Londoti Bookman. 



A LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

By SIDNEY LEE 

Editor of "A Dictionary of National Biography " ; Honorary Doctor 
of Letters in the Victoria University 

Cloth. i2mo. $1.75, net 



SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE AND WORK 

Being an Abridgement, chiefly for the use of Students, 
of a Life of William Shakespeare 

By SIDNEY LEE 

Cloth. i2mo. 80 cents, net 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

A Critical Study 
By GEORG BRANDES 

Cloth. 8vo. $2.60, net 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEK 



A^ 



-tf . 



A^>' 



^.. .^- 



J':- .^> 




' 










" 









.•V 









> 



f\.^.:^'. 



a\-" 



\' ^'. 









' 



-, c^ 



A> .^ 



A 



'^^4 
<? '^>' 








-o V 






,^*"~' 


- 


V- -t 




vV^- 





V "^'^ 






.0* 

.0- 


-.^' 




%- 


0^ ^ 


x'^ / 




- x^^ 


^^. . 




^.0^' 


~ .,N> 












4^ "'- 




\^- 





Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce 
\ N Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

A^' Treatment Date: Feb. 2009 






PreservationTechnologie: 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATIi 
-/' 111 Thomson Park Drive 

^-, '"{ Cranberry TownshiD. PA 1 6066 



■^^ o -> v 



."^ '^>. 



A' ^• 















# 



rt- 



' /, c- 






s-^ 



^0- 



'>, ' 






^ .,^^^- 



V \^ 



-A 



x^^ -C^ 



.0- 



.\^"-%, 



^ ■> , 






V- -.^ 



A"- 



.^^ ''- 



■ 0- 



\^^' 






■I 1 ^ " \' 






' / . , s ^ <.^^ 'Z, " ■■■■ ' \^ 



\V 



r\-'V,. 



0' 



'•'• 0^ 



o> 



■o- 






-^■ 






<V 



.^^^' 



v\ 



^^ 






.*■ 



0^ V 









^0 -r^. 



.0 



oV 



■i' </ i V ■■ \N 












'J- ,A 



vV 









.x-^ "' 



C^ 












AV 



,V^' 






■'^^' s'^' 



A^ 



V^-. 






.v\ 



X' -^-. 



